


On Our Way

by dynamic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Epistolary, H/D Pet Fair 2016, HP: EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Rebuilding Hogwarts, Room of Requirement, Slow Build, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-18 18:56:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8172353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynamic/pseuds/dynamic
Summary: Draco is trying to spend the summer keeping his head down, but a repair project and a certain snowy owl have other plans for him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to E, on whom I can always count, for the beta! And thank you to the mods for organizing this fest!
> 
> For [Prompt #125](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Td1Xj4ZNIqFDdQLtMpkOWEqn2hI5TEx8tEtrEU1u1U8/edit).

It was nearly sundown when Draco found her.

The mass of white feathers was clearly visible in the greenery of the Forbidden Forest, even as the light was beginning to wane. He was supposed to be gathering fluxweed, but a doleful-sounding hoot had caught his attention. Then he saw the bundle of white just at the foot of a gnarled tree some yards away. He took his wand out, just in case—one could never be too careful in the forest.

Another hoot came, almost sorrowful as Draco stood above the creature. He frowned and cast a Lumos to better see what was the matter with it. Under the light,he could see blood smeared pink over white feather, as well as the unnatural twist of a wing, which was flecked with dark bars—a female, then, presumably.

Draco stood for what felt like a long time over the injured owl, and eventually the bird met his gaze, its eyes illuminated in the just-waning light and strangely understanding. This was a magical owl. Draco could feel it. He crouched down, reaching out a hesitant hand.

With his hand outstretched, a memory came to him:

 

*

He was a young boy, just few years shy of Hogwarts, and one of the family eagle owls, Hartley, had just had owlets.

They were ugly little things, amber-eyed and scraggy-feathered, grayish brown and awkwardly waddling about whenever he ventured into the Manor’s Owlery to visit them. But still, they were small creatures that clamored about excitedly whenever Draco brought feed for them. As a boy, he couldn’t help but be a little bit delighted. Hartley was well-trained and attuned to the Malfoy family magic, so she merely watched attentively as the little birds climbed all over his hands.

They grew handsomely as the months passed, mottled baby feathers falling away to be replaced by sleek, shiny ones. Draco remembered being disappointed when Father told him they were going to be sold to a menagerie after they were old enough.

One summer afternoon, Draco was flying over the gardens—it was the first summer he’d been allowed to go flying around the grounds on his own, and he exercised this freedom liberally. He thought he spotted something odd by one of the hedges and flew down to inspect.

It was one of Hartley’s owlets. They were nearly fully grown now, but still on the small side compared to the other adult owls. This one lay twisted on the ground, wings fluttering feebly every so often.

When he brought the bird to his father’s study after abandoning his broom and tracking dirt onto the polished floors in his anxious haste, Lucius had simply raised an eyebrow, looking distastefully at the owl held gingerly in Draco’s arms.

“Draco, put that creature down and go clean yourself off. Your mother would hate to see you in such a state,” Lucius said.

“It’s one of Hartley’s,” Draco said, placing the owlet down on his father’s desk carefully. It blinked up at him.

“Draco, do as I say.”

“Yes, Father,” he said quickly. “But the owl…”

“Draco,” Lucius said, leaning forward in his chair and fixing him with a stern gaze. “Owls, like most creatures, live for only one purpose: To serve wizards.”

The owlet on the desk gave a feeble hoot that still managed to sound indignant, but Lucius ignored it.

“This owl can no longer serve anyone in its current state. It has no purpose. And we, as wizards, cannot waste time and effort on unworthy tasks. Do you understand?”

Draco felt something hollow in the pit of his stomach as he looked at the prone owl and bit his lip.

“Draco?” His father’s voice had lost its patient quality.

“Yes, Father. I understand,” Draco replied after a beat. His father would know best, after all.

“Good. Now, go clean yourself and have a house elf tend to the floors.”

The dismissal was clear, and Draco exited somewhat reluctantly.

He resolutely ignored the green light that flashed from the threshold of his father’s study as he was closing the door behind him, took a deep breath, and called for a house elf.

 

*

Now, Draco curled his fingers inward, hesitating. The owl looked back at him. Its eyes were golden and piercing. He turned his hand so that his palm was facing upwards and slowly reached out to stroke it below its beak with the back of his finger. The feathers were soft, and the white of its neck looked brilliant even against his pale skin. It gave a single hoot, but Draco couldn’t decipher what it might mean. His wand was still clutched in his other hand.

Inhaling deeply, he drew up and pointed his wand at the owl. It blinked up at him, ever watchful.

“ _Wingardium Leviosa_ ,” he said, and levitated the owl carefully from its spot on the ground, making sure not to disturb its injured wing.

Despite summer repairs being in full effect, the castle seemed mostly empty in the evening and at night. During the day, the halls were bustling with those who returned to aid in the repairs: teachers, students, Ministry workers, and regular citizens alike. As the rebuilding effort was comprised of only overage witches and wizards, most people found themselves spending their evenings elsewhere; Hogsmeade was popular, and some even Apparated or Flooed to London or back to their homes.

Draco, bound to the Hogwarts grounds as part of his Wizengamot-ordered community service, ventured nowhere and with no one.

The owl twittered, jarring him from his thoughts and bringing him back to his current predicament: the castle seemed quite empty from where Draco stood at the entrance hall, wand held aloft and bird still hovering in front of him.

He could go to the Hospital Wing and see what Madam Pomfrey might be able to do, but then he remembered that she, too, was absent during the evenings for the summer.

Draco looked at the owl, who despite seeming rather unruffled had a dark spot under its twisted wing that seemed to be growing only redder as it bled outwards through the white feathers. He pressed his lips together. A sense of dread was beginning to rise up from the balls of his feet, settling somewhere in his spine as he considered his options.

He could try to heal the bird himself—but he knew nothing about treating animal injuries. He supposed he could go to the library and try to read up on the subject, but he was sure the owl before him would not appreciate being the very first test subject in Draco’s spontaneous foray into creature care.

A deep sigh found itself expelled from him, and that dread began to swirl again. He wondered if it would be better to just put the owl back where he had found her after all and leave her to fend for herself. As if she could hear his thoughts, however, the owl gave a hoot that sounded quite disapproving.

He stared at her. The memory of Hartley’s owlet and the green flash came back to him again, and with enormous reluctance and a little bit of guilt, he turned around and headed back out the entrance hall doors.

 

*

Dark was rapidly beginning to cover the grounds as night fell, but Draco knew the way well enough, and he could see the cabin not too far off in the distance, where little yellow squares of light glowed from the windows. He gave a halfhearted glare at the owl in front of him, the white of her feathers almost glowing in the dusk.

“I hope you’re happy,” he muttered. The owl simply looked back at him, though there seemed to be an air of smugness about her.

When he was almost at the front door, Draco carefully cancelled the Levitation Charm in order to carry the owl instead; that way, it would be less likely for Hagrid to cause him some kind of bodily harm if he were holding an injured animal, he reasoned. And with a deep breath, he steeled himself and rapped his knuckles against the thick wooden door to Hagrid’s hut.

There was some clanging from inside, along with the unmistakable bark of that great boarhound Hagrid owned—its name escaped Draco.

“How can I help yeh—oh.” Hagrid cut off mid-sentence at the sight of Draco, seemingly rendered speechless before swelling with what looked like anger. “What d’yeh want, Malfoy?” he demanded gruffly.

Draco was unsure how to begin. “Er—”

But he was interrupted by the exclamation Hagrid, who only just seemed to notice the owl in Draco’s arms, gave. “Is tha’— _Hedwig_? No, it can’t be…”

“She’s injured,” Draco supplied. The bird was peering cautiously at Hagrid, as if in the process of assessing him and not coming to a conclusion quite yet.

That seemed to jolt Hagrid back to himself, and he finally opened his door wider. “Yeh’d better come in, then,” he said, seeming to forget his anger. Fang, he remember the dog was called, bounded forward and immediately began licking at Draco’s shoes, but he just stepped smartly forward and into the large hut.

“Righ’, now that I look closer, she has different markin’s than Hedwig, but blimey, do they look alike,” Hagrid said as he bent over and inspected the owl closely, trailing a few large fingers gently down her back. He frowned when he came to the twisted wing. “Injured, yeh say? Where’d yeh find ‘er?”

“In the forest, earlier this evening,” Draco said.

The sound of his voice apparently caused Hagrid to remember just who was in his hut, and he stared for a moment at Draco with squinted eyes, as if he couldn’t quite believe that he, Draco, had brought an injured animal to be cared for.

“I was hoping you’d be able to tend to her,” said Draco when he felt the speculative silence had gone on long enough.

“Righ’...righ’, ‘course I can, jus’ leave her with me. She’ll be righ’ as rain in no time,” Hagrid said, ducking his head down. He took the owl from Draco’s arms, and for a moment, Draco was afraid that the sheer size of him would crush the comparatively small bird in those large hands. But Hagrid’s grip was gentle and the owl gave no indication of being frightened or distressed, other than turning her head to pin Draco with another one of her long gazes.

“Right then,” Draco said. He made his way toward the door, desperate to leave. Hagrid said nothing, absorbed in inspecting the owl with what almost seemed like wonder, and Draco took that as permission to go. He was horribly uncomfortable being here, and with the owl out of his arms, several unpleasant memories came to the surface, not the least of which had involved getting the man before him thrown out of the school.

His pride had already taken several hits just by knocking on Hagrid’s door, but just as he was about to exit, he turned back once. The owl had still not taken her eyes off of him, and Hagrid seemed to notice this as well, because he was glancing between the bird and Draco with what Draco thought was suspicion.

“Let me know when she’s all right,” Draco said impulsively, and left the hut before Hagrid could reply.

 

*

Draco awoke early the next morning in order to venture back into the Forbidden Forest; he had abandoned his fluxweed gathering the previous evening and Slughorn was expecting them this afternoon for his various healing brews to be given to Madam Pomfrey.

As he passed by Hagrid’s hut on the way down into the forest, he recalled the significance of his parting words from the earlier night. Draco was aware that he didn't have to say them; he could have just left the owl with Hagrid and not returned for it. It probably would have joined the school’s owl parliament in that case. But he had asked to be updated on her status—by Hagrid, no less.

He made quick work of the fluxweed and was back at the castle before lunchtime. Slughorn was not in his office when Draco went to drop the bundle off, which would have been good for him—after weeks of being here, he’d found the less interaction he had with other people, the better—except in his stead was Professor McGonagall, looking stern as ever.

“Mr. Malfoy,” she said in a tone that made it sound like she had been waiting for him. Had she been? Draco frowned.

“Professor,” he said warily.

Her lips thinned as she took him in for a few moments. He realized how he must have looked—he had been in the forest for most of the morning, after all. In addition to that, he had stopped bothering quite so much with his appearance over the summer once he realized that people would hardly be looking at him anyway (though for him the neglect only extended so far as no longer combing his hair back and no longer having his shirts pressed nightly).

“If you would follow me, Mr. Malfoy,” she said finally, “I have made new arrangements for your repair work.”

He didn’t ask for an elaboration and followed her silently as she started her way up through the dungeons and towards the Headmistress’s office, but his insides were experiencing a curious curdling sensation. His presence at Hogwarts teetered on the opinion of his superiors, and he needed his NEWTs if he had any hope of a career. He didn’t think he could afford any mishaps.

His work thus far had been mostly odd jobs given to him by various professors; they always seemed mildly surprised to see him, and gave him tasks that were rather obviously afterthoughts. Had he done something wrong or unsatisfactory?

In the first few weeks, it had burned at his pride as a Malfoy to be subjected to such menial tasks. But it was now well into August and Draco was accustomed to keeping his head down. No one had complained or said anything to him either; he was sure this was due in part to the fact that he resolutely avoided contact with everyone but professors—especially other students, former or returning.

He followed Professor McGonagall up past the gargoyle and was prepared to enter the office in the silence they had kept for the whole walk, but the sight of someone else in the room stopped him.

“Potter.”

Draco was aware that Potter was also at the school, ostensibly to aid with the repairs to the castle, but he, Draco, had neither sight nor sound from him in the past weeks. In fact, the last time he had seen Potter was at Draco’s own trial, where Potter’s testimony on his behalf was no doubt—it was useless to even dispute the notion, much as Draco wanted to at first—the reason Draco had managed to avoid a cell in Azkaban and had instead been allowed to continue on with community service.

And before that had been when Potter had been lying limp and lifeless on the ground—Draco remembered feeling sick, despite himself—until he wasn’t anymore, and then—

“Malfoy.” Potter sounded surprised to see him, and when Draco looked up at him, it came as almost a shock to see not the dislike he had been expecting on Potter’s face, but a neutral expression. Green eyes regarded him almost warily, waiting to see what he’d do next.

That was another thing—Draco had had seven years to come to terms with the fact that he found Potter attractive in a vague way, but that had never been enough to deter him from feeling that raging hatred all the same. He supposed it could have been considered a crush, perhaps in his third and fourth years, but the hatred had most definitely won out towards the end.

But now, the raging madman was dead at last and his hatred for Potter had evaporated in the heat of the fire he’d been pulled out of, and that seemed to have given the subconscious parts of his mind carte blanche on his previously repressed attractions.

In other words, in the time that Draco had stopped having to worry about death threats hanging over his head, Potter had become incredibly, wildly fit.

“Gentlemen,” Professor McGonagall said, taking her place at her desk. Behind her, Dumbledore’s portrait seemed quite absorbed in a catalogue of summer knitting patterns, paying no mind to the three people in the office. Draco averted his gaze immediately, and though the old Headmaster was focused on the magazine, there was a distinct twinkle in his blue eyes, somehow detectable even on canvas.

“Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy, firstly I would like to say that your work on the school this summer has not gone unnoticed. I must congratulate you both on a job well done.”

Relief washed through Draco—he hadn’t done anything wrong then. He seemed just as surprised as Potter, however, to have received praise from McGonagall—a rare thing in itself. Draco hardly thought anything he had done merited such congratulations; Potter, on the other hand, had been busy helping rebuild the courtyards and Ravenclaw Tower. Or so Draco had heard.

“Thank you, Professor,” Potter said. He was shifting on his feet and glancing over at Draco every so often, and Draco was pleased that he was not doing the same.

“Now, then. The two of you will begin, starting tomorrow, repairs on the Room of Requirement.”

“What?”

“Excuse me?”

He and Potter had spoken at the same time—they shared a fleeting look before turning their attention back to Professor McGonagall.

“You heard me, both of you. Now seeing as the two of you,” she looked hawkishly at the both of them before continuing, “were present at the time of its destruction, I should think it not too unreasonable for you to begin its repair. It is, after all, a part of the school and has been since the beginning.”

Draco clenched his jaw. Memories of the Room still plagued him sometimes at night, great fiery beasts reaching for him, brilliant and burning hot, Vince’s distant screaming…

He had gone quite still, and he saw Potter glance over at him nervously.

“You may continue your work on the Room into the school year, if you must,” McGonagall went on. “In fact, I should like you to do so. After everything that’s happened, I daresay we need some display of interhouse unity.”

Draco felt his eyebrows raise. He may not be able to dredge up the same hatred he felt for Potter anymore, but that was a far cry from wanting to spend his days with him as some sort of display of Hufflepuffian ideology. Even if the tosser had gone and gotten himself all hot and fit. He had to fight to suppress the scoff from escaping him.

To his left, Potter seemed to have similar feelings, because he said, as if finally bursting after holding himself back, “But why? And why with _Malfoy_?”

That was more like it. It was like the question had slotted them back to their usual state, and things fell back into their natural order. Draco let the sneer onto his face this time, narrowing his eyes.

“Apologies for having offended your _Saviorship_ somehow—”

“That’s quite enough,” McGonagall interrupted, and Draco suddenly remembered his situation, remembered the reality of things. He wasn’t in any position to argue, especially not directly in front of the Headmistress. He let his expression slide back into neutrality rather sullenly.

“Mr. Potter, I believe I had just finished explaining myself. Was I unclear?” There was a definite note of frostiness in her voice, and her gaze was growing more hawkish by the moment.

“No, Professor,” Potter mumbled.

“Good. Now, I expect you two to behave yourselves. Think of the future of the school. Tomorrow you begin your work together.”

She looked at the both of them expectantly.

“Yes, Professor,” Draco said woodenly. He turned to leave; Potter still stood in front of McGonagall’s desk, but neither of them made to stop him, so he exited the office. Potter was staying no doubt to try to sway the Headmistress against the project.

Something ugly reared its head in Draco’s chest. Of course Potter thought he was too good to be working with the likes of Draco.

On his way back to the dungeons, Draco found himself kicking as hard as he could at a bit of loose stone from a pile of nearby rubble. It soared directly through the passing by figure of the Bloody Baron. The ghost turned to silently glare at Draco, but Draco paid him no mind and continued his thunderous descent to the empty Slytherin dorms.

For weeks he had been feeling listless, doing exactly what was expected of him with and stamping down any feelings of anger or regret or turmoil, with only the goal of getting through the day in mind.

But now, Draco was feeling more frustrated than he could ever remember.

 

*

Draco was dreading going to the seventh floor the next day. They hadn’t discussed a time to meet, and seeing as no one had given him any other instructions, he assumed that Potter had failed in his attempt to persuade Professor McGonagall out of the idea last night.

Much as he was not looking forward to their meeting, Draco knew he would have to show up. He entertained the notion of not going at all, skiving off and spending a day by himself reading down by the lake, but quickly dismissed the idea. He could not afford Potter running off to McGonagall on him, which he would most certainly do if given the opportunity.

Still, he dragged out his morning routine as long as he feasibly could, showering and pulling on his clothes with speed that would have Pansy clicking her tongue impatiently at him if she were here.

Dressed at last, he decided breakfast was a good idea before a long, surely taxing day of working with Potter.

Thus, it was nearly mid-morning by the time he reached the seventh floor corridor. Potter was already there, leaning against the wall and looking annoyed.

“Nice of you to show up,” he said.

Draco, in no mood to begin arguing already, simply said, “Let’s just get this over with, Potter.”

Last night’s frustration seemed to have resurfaced at the sight of Potter standing there with his wild hair and green eyes and Muggle clothing, but he forced it down with a clench of his jaw and began walking the hall along which the Room of Requirement was.

 _I need to get into the Room of Requirement,_ he thought as he turned on his heel.

“It won’t work,” Potter said, and Draco halted.

“What?”

“It won’t work,” Potter repeated. “I’ve already tried it. The door won’t appear, no matter what kind of request I make.”

“Well what the hell are we supposed to do, then?” Draco demanded.

Potter opened his mouth to reply, but he was interrupted as Hagrid came lumbering around the corner.

“There yeh are! Bin lookin’ fer yeh,” Hagrid said, and Draco stiffened. Did this have to happen _now_? In front of _Potter_?

Hagrid seemed to have noticed Potter as well, though Potter was none the wiser that Hagrid had been presumably searching for Draco and not himself. “Harry!” Hagrid greeted somewhat falsely. “All righ’?”

“All right, Hagrid,” Potter said, smiling. “Did you need something?”

Hagrid shifted around a bit, looking rather uncomfortable. But he plowed on anyway after a moment, clearing his throat loudly before continuing.

“Nah, jus’...jus’ wonderin’...yeh haven’ gotten a new owl or anythin’, have yeh?” Hagrid asked the question with a forced casualness.

Potter stiffened up immediately. Draco could see the way his shoulders tightened from where he was standing, and he frowned a bit. A new owl?

And then he vaguely recalled a memory from the Manor, the summer before his seventh year. Dolohov and some of the other Death Eaters joking raucously about “ _Potter’s ickle owlie_ ” and doing drunken imitations of the bird dying and falling from great height. Suddenly, he felt quite nauseous where he stood. Hagrid’s exclamation from the previous night about Hedwig made much more sense now.

“No,” Potter answered shortly, and Hagrid grew more visibly uncomfortable.

“Jus’ askin’ is all….Er, Malfoy. Yeh mind stoppin’ by later tonight? I got yer—-er—well, s’all ready now. Good as new.”

Without waiting for a response, Hagrid strode off, his large legs taking him quite far as he seemed eager to leave. Potter seemed to have forgotten his stiffness, though, the moment that Hagrid addressed Draco, because he was looking at Draco now with incredulity.

“ _You’re_ going to Hagrid’s tonight?” he asked, voice colored with disbelief.

Draco, for one, was trying and failing to stop any heat from going to his face. “What of it?” he asked brusquely. “I don’t recall needing permission from _you_.”

“What are you planning on doing?”

“It’s none of your business, Potter, but it’s nothing _evil_. Follow me under that cloak of yours if you don’t believe me, you seemed quite keen to do so in sixth year,” Draco retorted, and Potter had the grace to avert his gaze, embarrassed. A brief, hot satisfaction came to him; he was still able to get under Potter’s skin, then. Vaguely he thought he probably shouldn’t enjoy it anymore, especially now that he found Potter so attractive, but he pushed the thought away quickly.

“Anyway, I think we have a bigger problem to worry about if we can’t get into the Room,” Draco said.

“Right,” Potter said. “Right...we’ll just have to figure out some kind of way in.”

“Or, we can go to McGonagall and tell her that it’s useless and the Room is gone forever,” Draco suggested, seeing the opportunity to get himself out of the arrangement.

“Oh? And I suppose you’re going to be the one to go over to her office and tell her that?” Potter said in a challenging tone. Draco didn’t answer.

“Fine,” he said instead. “Fine. What have you asked it so far?”

“I dunno, loads of stuff,” Potter said. Draco arched a brow; Potter gave a huff before elaborating. “I’ve told it I needed to get into the Room of Requirement, that I needed to see the old DA room, that I needed a place to think, I dunno what else but all along those lines.”

Draco looked at the wall musingly, and then walked forward to touch it. A strange thought had taken hold of him; when he put his palm against the stone precisely where the door would have appeared, the stone was warm to the touch.

“Surely not,” he whispered. Potter had walked forward and was looking at the stone now too with speculation.

“What?” he asked, still confused.

“I think I know how to get in,” Draco said. He felt like a lead weight had been dropped in his stomach.

Abruptly, he turned and began his walk in front of the doors, thinking hard.

_I need to get into the room where Vince died…_

_I need to get into the room where Vince died…_

_I need to get into the room where Vince died…_

On his third iteration, large doors appeared right where they always did, and Potter looked at Draco with mild surprise.

“How’d you do that?” he demanded.

Draco stood in front of the doors, not wanting to push it open. From here, he could still feel the heat emanating from behind those heavy doors. He swallowed with some difficulty before answering Potter.

“Fiendfyre. It’s cursed fire, so it must still be burning in there. It’s stuck on the Room of Hidden Things, and whatever spellwork that allows the Room of Requirement to be transfigured won’t work until it’s put out.”

He could feel Potter’s eyes on him, but he refused to turn to look.

“How did you manage to figure that out?”

Draco shrugged. He didn’t think he’d ever shrugged in his life before; the gesture seemed so very common, beneath him. But he shrugged now.

“Just an educated guess. We’ll see if I’m right, shall we?”

His wand was gripped in his hand very tightly, and his heart was beating very fast as he moved forward to push the doors open. The handle was hot to the touch. He closed his eyes, but that did nothing to quell the images flashing in his mind—fiery chimeras and serpents, all yawning their great maws at him. They were the same images he saw in his dreams, the ones he woke up in the middle of the night from, blankets thrown tangled and askew and body covered in sweat from an imagined heat.

Behind him, Potter said, “Malfoy, you don’t have to…”

But Draco ignored him and pushed the doors open.

The heat came at once, like opening the door to a hot stone oven, and the fire was so bright that the entire room, with its charred mountains of miscellaneous items built up over centuries, seemed to be shimmering with the waves of heat coming from the flames.

He heard Potter’s intake of breath from a little ways behind him. It took him a few moments to register, however, that the fire burning throughout the room was, in fact, plain fire, dancing in flares rather than in shapes of fantastic beasts.

So intense was the relief that washed over him that he did not notice anything amiss until Potter shouted, “Look out!”

Suddenly, something was lunging for Draco; something long and serpentine and glowing red with an angry hiss and ruby eyes with slits for pupils. They looked just like Nagini’s—they looked just like _his_ —

Panic overtook Draco as the snake continued to come for him, slithering with alarming speed from the fire, red and angry and hissing, and he fell backwards. The Fiendfyre was gone, but this was worse—much worse—something left behind by the Dark Lord himself, surely—

He raised his wand, but it suddenly felt extremely uncooperative and foreign in his grip. It was not his mother’s, but his grandfather’s; he had not felt right leaving her alone in the Manor wandless while he returned to Hogwarts. In his palm, with the glowing red snake charging at him, it felt like a stranger’s.

Potter hissed something at the serpent in what must have been Parseltongue, and it stopped suddenly and looked at Potter. In front of them, the crackling heat of the fire raged on in the Room of Hidden Things.

To Draco’s surprise, the red snake did not, as he had expected, continue to charge at him or at Potter; rather, it grew quite still, curled in on itself, and collapsed into dust.

He was shaking, but before Potter could go over and offer to help him up, as he was looking like he might do, Draco got to his feet, and dusted himself off. His hands were trembling, his right one still clutched in a white-knuckled grip around the suddenly unfamiliar wand. He shoved them in his pockets—another thing he did not usually do for the commonality of it—to stop Potter from seeing.

Potter spelled the doors shut with a heavy thud, and soon they disappeared from view and morphed back into the rough stone of the castle walls.

“Malfoy…” Potter said, unsure. The hint of concern in his voice had to have been supplied by Draco’s own imagination.

But Draco didn’t think he’d ever wanted to have a conversation less in his life, so he didn’t wait for Potter to continue. Instead, he turned on his heel and left.

His hands, when he returned to his dormitory, were still shaking.

 

*

The first thing Draco did when he returned to the Slytherin dorms was shed his clothing in a rush; the fabric smelled of smoke and ash, and when that didn’t get rid of the scent, he got in the shower and turned the water on as hot as he could stand it.

His skin was red and his scalp was burning from his vigorous scrubbing by the time he finished, but at least the smell was gone. Dressed in a fresh set of robes, Draco felt immensely better. He tried to Vanish the smoke-scented clothing strewn across the floor, but his wand still wasn’t cooperating and he only managed to make the socks and a couple buttons off the shirt disappear. Scowling, he kicked the discarded clothing under his bed and resolved to deal with them later.

It was after lunchtime now and by no means close to the end of the usual working time, but the last thing Draco wanted to do was go back out and confront Potter—or worse, McGonagall—about what had happened. He sat at his desk instead, holding his grandfather’s old wand by his fingertips. It was not the Malfoy family wand that had been passed down to his father, as the eighteen inches of elm had met its fateful destruction the previous year, but the one his grandfather had used during his own Hogwarts years before he had come of age. Draco hadn’t thought much of the eleven inches of dark hazel before, but as he ran his fingers lightly over it now, from tip to handle, he knew it wouldn’t work for him the way his hawthorn one had.

The mundane work he’d been doing thus far, mostly Levitating and spelling things lighter and other basic, first year-level work had been going just fine, but now that Draco thought about it, there was a rather sluggishness to his magic lately. He had attributed it to the all-around listlessness he had been feeling, though, and not made the connection to his wand.

Today, his first instinct had been to Stun the creature that came for him. Though he hadn’t spoken the incantation. Draco felt sure that the spell wouldn’t have worked properly even if he had.

With a mounting sense of shame, Draco recalled the afternoon’s events and realized quite suddenly what the snakes had been. He put his hand in his hands frustratedly—of course. It all made sense. He should have known, he should have realized before reacting in such a way. Potter probably thought he was so weak and was laughing it up with Weasley mercilessly.

 _He’s seen you in worse states,_ a voice in the back of his mind reminded him gently. _And he still testified for you after all that._

He shoved the voice away and pulled out his books instead—if he had an afternoon to himself, he decided he might as well make use of it. He was dreadfully behind on all subjects, since he spent his sixth and seventh years otherwise occupied.

When the clock by his bedside told him that it was nearly evening and he had yet to soak up any of the information he’d just read, Draco finally gave up. His mind kept wandering back to the Room of Requirement—why had Potter even bothered to help him?

_Because that’s what he does, the great martyr. He helps people, _the same voice from earlier supplied. Draco scowled—he chose a most inconvenient time to start developing a conscience.__

__He thought of writing home to let his mother know of his new working arrangements, and it was this thought that reminded him—he was supposed to pick up Charlotte (which he thought was a rather appropriate name and one he chose as his thoughts had wandered while studying) from Hagrid’s hut._ _

__It wasn’t quite nighttime, but it would have to do. Draco didn’t think he could stand being in his room for another minute, suddenly sick of how quiet it was. The frustration returned again, coiling in his stomach like a thick rope knotted tightly._ _

__He wasn’t lonely, he told himself firmly as he swung his cloak on. He was just bored of being by himself._ _

__

 

 

*

His knock on Hagrid’s door tonight was done with less trepidation than before, though there was still a good amount. He gave Fang a vague, singular pat on the head when the dog bounded up to him, tail spinning madly, which earned him a strange look from Hagrid.

“Wasn’ expectin’ yeh fer a bit,” Hagrid said hesitantly by means of greeting. He still looked rather uncomfortable to have Draco in his home, though the hostility from the other night was gone. “Thought yeh was workin’ up in the castle with Harry.”

“We...finished early,” Draco said. If he wasn’t going to tell his own mother what had happened, he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell Hagrid. “So, where is she?”

Hagrid got up and bustled around near the back of his large, one-room hut for a moment before returning to the front carrying a cage in his arms. The owl was inside, asleep with her head under her wing, which seemed to be in perfect working order again. She roused when Hagrid set the cage down on the table and unlatched the door and hopped out.

Draco went over to her and the bird nipped his finger affectionately, its talons clicking against the wood as she shuffled closer to him. Hagrid was watching the procedure with a deep look, but Draco didn’t notice. He was busy being surprised at how he was feeling—happy, as it was, to see that the owl was healthy again.

He stroked the top of her head lightly; she really did look like Potter’s old owl, now that he thought about it.

“Will Charlotte be all right if we release her now?”

“Charlotte?” Hagrid asked quickly.

Draco realized that he had spoken quite without meaning to, and he could feel heat beginning to rise to his face.

“Yes, well,” he said rather defiantly, as if challenging Hagrid to disagree with him. “She ought to have a name, oughtn’t she?”

Hagrid was looking at Draco as if seeing him for the first time. “Yeah...yer absolutely righ’,” he said eventually. “Charlotte…’sa good name fer her, too….Fits her, regal like....”

He was looking at Draco again, squinting at him as if it were very bright outside, though night was falling. “Yeh know, Malfoy...Yer not like I expected yeh’d be….” he mused.

Draco suspected it was related to the previous night’s frustration as well as the day’s events, but he was suddenly extremely fed up with the way he was being tip toed around and straightened up to face Hagrid.

“All right,” he said briskly. “I’m only going to say this once. I’ve done lots of things that I’m not proud of. I know I was horrible to you in school, I know I purposefully tried to get you thrown out and that hippogriff executed. It’s one of the many things that I’ve...come to regret,” he finished with some difficulty. Hagrid was staring at him as if he had sprouted another head, but Draco continued on resolutely.

He breathed once, short inhale and exhale. “And so, I...apologize. If that’s all right.”

Though Hagrid had still not responded, Draco did not dare look up at the man for a long while. Charlotte, still perched on the table, gave a soft twitter and Draco finally lifted his eyes up.

To his great alarm, he spotted a tear leaking down Hagrid’s face into his great beard.

“Course...course I accept yer ‘pology,” Hagrid said thickly. “Knew yeh couldn’ be all bad, if yeh’d come to me after everythin’ jus’ to care fer a hurt owl. An’ Charlotte!” Hagrid looked at the snowy owl who was now gazing back at Hagrid with mild interest. Perhaps it was the crying. “Tha’s a perfect name fer her if I’ve ever heard one!” he exclaimed. “Hedwig would be righ’ proud.”

Draco frowned. “Hedwig?”

This was the second time Hedwig had been mentioned in the time that he’d visited Hagrid. He recalled the awkward way Hagrid had questioned Potter about having an owl that morning, too, and then it suddenly clicked.

“Hedwig was Harry’s old owl,” Hagrid explained, as if Draco didn’t know the name of the snowy owl after six years of watching her deliver post to Potter from across the Great Hall. “I got ‘er for Harry meself, the firs’ time we went to Diagon Alley. Shoulda seen the way his face lit up when he saw ‘er, yeh know?”

“You don’t mean to say Hedwig was Charlotte’s mother?” Draco asked, incredulous.

“S’possible,” Hagrid said, wiping the wetness from his face. “Ar, more’n possible, really. Seems the on’y logical explanation, actually. Yeh found her alone, yeh say?”

Draco nodded.

“S’rare for wild snowy owls to be this far south, ‘specially this time o’ year. Coulda bin because she was attracted to Hogwarts’s magic, but s’even rarer for a magical owl to be found in the wild on its own like ol’ Charlotte was,” Hagrid explained.

“Snowy owls are real territorial, see,” he continued. “Why d’yeh think Hedwig was the on’y snowy owl at Hogwarts? Took a real chance gettin’ ‘er for Harry, but it worked out jus’ fine. My guess is Hedwig mated with a common wild snowy one o’ these years an’ had Charlotte. Explains why there aren’ more snowy owls out in the forest, an’ also why she an’ Hedwig look so similar.”

“So she’s sort of like a half blood?” Draco asked. Hagrid immediately grew stern.

“Now look here,” he said gruffly. “Ain’t none o’ that blood status nonsense here. Creatures is creatures. They all want the same thing in the end—food an’ shelter an’ summat to do. Jus’ so happens that some o’ them are magical an’ some aren’.” His tone was firm, leaving no room for argument.

Behind him, Charlotte gave a hoot that sounded a lot like confirmation. Draco said no more.

“Anyway,” Hagrid said, deflating, “to answer yer other question, yer gonna have a time tryin’ to release her back in the wild. She’s got magic in her blood, an’ now that she’s finally met a wizard, I ‘spect she won’ want ter go back.”

Draco frowned and looked at Charlotte, who was gazing at him almost challengingly. “So you mean to say I have to keep her?” he asked.

“Abou’ that…” Hagrid said. “I’ve actually bin thinkin’...well, yeh know...Harry was in a righ’ state when Hedwig died. He was tryin’ not to let it show, a lot happened that night….” He trailed off, looking distant for a moment. “Anyway, I could tell he was a bit torn up ‘bout it. He loved Hedwig much as anyone could, he did.”

Draco could already see where this was going, and he didn’t know how he felt about it.

“‘Course yeh can keep her if yeh want, you found her after all. I won’ begrudge yeh that. An’ she seems a mite attached ter yeh...but it wouldn’ be a bad idea to give ‘er to Harry, either, eh? He’d be glad to know that Hedwig’s still alive, in a way,” Hagrid finished. He was looking at Draco hopefully.

“I...I’ll think about it,” Draco said.

“That’s fine,” Hagrid said. “Take yer time. I know Harry and yeh aren’t the best o’ friends, after all.”

Draco cleared his throat awkwardly. “Right. I should be heading back up to the castle now,” he said.

Hagrid let him go with mentions about having tea sometime, which was apparently something he wanted to do now that Draco had apologized. Charlotte, as if sensing that Draco was about to leave, fluttered up onto his shoulder. Draco said his thanks and left, with no intentions of ever sitting down to have _tea_ with _Hagrid._

He might regret the actions of his youth and he meant his apology, but he didn’t necessarily want to be friends with the man. Even if he was the only one Draco had spoken to in a non-community service capacity in the past few weeks; even if he was the only one who had readily accepted that Draco wasn’t who he used to be anymore.

 _Dear God,_ Draco thought as he made his way back up to the castle, _I’m turning into Potter himself._

On his shoulder, Charlotte gave a jubilant hoot.

 

*

In the time it took for Draco to make his way back up to the castle, he realized he was starving. He had not eaten since breakfast. He took a quick detour to the kitchens to arrange for dinner to be sent to his room.

The sight of all the house elves and food sent Charlotte into a frenzy and she hit Draco in the face several times with her wings, but Draco could not find it in him to be annoyed at her. Hagrid’s idea was still on his mind, and he turned it over slowly as he retreated to the dungeons.

Charlotte was unlike any owl he had interacted with before; all the Malfoy owls were extremely well-mannered. Charlotte, though, immediately fluttered around the common room curiously, poking her beak gently at various pieces of furniture all around the room before settling onto an armchair, very much claiming it for her own.

Draco, who was trying very hard not to be charmed by her, sighed.

“You’re ridiculous,” he told her, and then went to his room to retrieve a quill and parchment.

When he returned, dinner had been set out on one of the low tables and Charlotte was drinking his pumpkin juice.

He thought while he ate about what to do with the bird. He’d never been particularly attached to animals, nor had been been wanting an owl when he found her. Reluctantly, though, he admitted that he was a little bit fond of her. He remembered her all crumpled up on the forest floor, yet still looking at him so defiantly.

She wasn’t unlike Potter in that moment—momentarily defeated, but with a spirit still unbroken.

He sighed again; if her mother really was Hedwig, then he supposed Potter had somewhat of a claim to her. That was why he was doing it, he reasoned with himself. Not because Potter might find the bird meaningful.

When he pushed the tray of food away and slid the parchman, quill, and ink closer to him, though, he hesitated. What would he say? _Hello, please take this owl, who incidentally is Hedwig’s daughter. From, Draco Malfoy._

He tapped his quill against his chin, considering his options. A part of him wanted to write a gloating, mean-spirited note about how gracious Draco was for giving Charlotte to Potter as a gift, and he should like something in return for his generosity. Draco could think of several things he’d like from Potter.

He allowed his mind to wander in this vein for a bit, daydreaming dazedly about another time, another life where he might approach Potter and tell him just what he thought of that untidy hair and those green eyes.

And then the thought occurred to him that Potter might think he was up to no good again, or perhaps trying to spy on him or some such ludicrous paranoia that Potter was so prone to. And then he’d go run off to McGonagall or one of the Ministry people here, and Harry Potter’s suspicions were surely enough to leave some kind of mark on his fragile record.

He made up his mind quickly after that and wrote the message onto the parchment—

 

> _You seem to be in need of an owl. This is Charlotte. Please treat her well._

  
He purposefully omitted his name, but he had also left out the part about Charlotte being Hedwig’s owlet. For some reason, he didn’t want to tell Potter—yet, he told himself. Someday he’d tell Potter it was he who had given him a new owl, and then he’d reveal Charlotte’s lineage. But for now, he selfishly wanted the information for himself—for the reckless plan he had just devised on the spot.

Quickly folding the parchment up, he wrote Potter’s name neatly on the front, found some twine and approached Charlotte, who was watching him with a kind of mixture of eagerness and trepidation.

Draco wasn’t sure if she’d know what to do; she obviously hadn’t done this before. But Charlotte obediently held out one of her legs and waited patiently for Draco to tie the note on. Then he lifted her, set her on his arm, and exited the common room so they were standing just outside the entrance.

“He’s in Gryffindor Tower,” he said to Charlotte. “I think. You know where to go, don’t you?”

Charlotte looked at him reproachfully, and Draco had a feeling she would have rolled her eyes if she were human. She didn’t seem too eager to leave her perch on his arm, though.

“Go on,” Draco said gently, and tapped her back with a finger.

Charlotte took off then, up through the dungeon corridor and through the castle. Draco watched her go until she turned a corner and he could no longer see her.

He had to tell himself again, when he turned to go back inside the common room, that he wasn’t lonely. She was just a bird, after all.

 

*

Draco woke the next morning and drew his hangings back to the sight of Charlotte perched on the bedside table, letter clamped in her beak.

This made him scramble up, pulse inexplicably faster as he took the letter, which was just a piece of folded parchment. He unfolded it and drank the words in quickly—which took no time at all, since the letter was only two lines long:

 

> _I don’t want another owl._
> 
> _Who is this?_

  
Draco carefully folded the letter up again and placed it on the bedside table. He gave Charlotte a few strokes on the head; she was looking very pleased with herself, no doubt from having successfully completed her very first letter correspondence.

“Poor Charlotte,” he murmured. “Foolish Potter doesn’t want you, it seems. We’ll just have to change his mind, won’t we?”

Charlotte preened.

He got ready quickly; as usual, breakfast was waiting in the common room as he left the dormitory. As he ate, Charlotte perched next to him, occasionally taking sips of juice and looking extremely self-satisfied. Draco had to admit, the feeling was mutual. There was a twinge of guilt down there, too, but it was outweighed by the surprising sense of accomplishment he felt.

He could freely admit to himself now that he’d wanted this to happen. He didn’t expect Potter to accept Charlotte readily and with no questions, especially not without the vital information about her ancestry. In sending Charlotte to Potter, Draco thought there might be two outcomes: Potter taking Charlotte right away, in which case Draco would have left it alone; or, Potter refusing to take Charlotte and sending her back, perhaps even with a response note.

It felt good, he thought in the privacy of his own mind, to have Potter’s attention in this way—no turbulent histories, no wars splitting them. Anonymity was a strong drug—one two line note was enough to prove that.

He wasn’t sure whether he should pen his response now or later; it was still early, but there was a chance Potter was already up and about. Otherwise, he’d have to wait until the evening.

He decided to just reply now and retreated to his room to quickly write the message out:

 

> _No one important. Why don’t you want her?_

  
Charlotte looked immensely pleased when Draco brought the note to her, Potter’s name written tidily on the front size.

“Take this to Potter, all right? Wait for him to show up if he’s not at Gryffindor Tower - don’t give him the letter while I’m with him, understand?”

Charlotte clicked her beak in what Draco took to mean as understanding, and he fastened the note to her ankle.

He was so caught up the letters and in Charlotte’s presence since waking up that he hadn’t even thought about the task that lay ahead of him today; however, his mention about being with Potter later on brought back the events from yesterday.

Somehow he had forgotten, caught up in being pleased with himself, that they would be returning once again to the Room of Hidden Things. Potter and the Weasel probably had themselves a nice laugh at Draco behind his back last night. His face burned at the thought, remembering how he had fallen over and trembled pathetically— _weak_.

Scowling, he swept Charlotte off the table and onto his arm and left the common room. Charlotte took off immediately when they got to the dungeon corridors, headed in the direction of a courtyard, presumably so she could make it outside and reach the towers that way instead of flying around inside the castle. She seemed to know the layout of the castle quite well already; Draco watched her go for a bit before sighing and resigning himself to his fate.

 

*

Potter wasn’t there yet when he reached the seventh floor corridor. In the spirit of procrastination, Draco watched Barnabas the Barmy getting clubbed on the head by trolls for a few minutes before taking his wand out and preparing to open the room.

Before he could, however, footsteps echoes in the empty hallway, followed by Potter himself.

“Nice of you to show up,” Draco said, remembering Potter’s greeting from the other day.

“Ha bloody ha,” Potter muttered.

“Something keeping you?” Draco asked casually, thinking of Charlotte.

“No,” Potter said shortly, and left it at that.

“Look, Potter,” Draco said suddenly, turning towards Potter. “About yesterday—”

“It’s fine,” Potter interrupted. To Draco’s surprise, he actually looked a little bit sympathetic, as well as sheepish. “Let’s just pretend it never happened.”

With that, Potter quickly paced along the corridor three times, and the door materialized.

“Ready?” he asked Draco, his wand in hand. Draco nodded.

The sight that greeted them when they opened the door was no less awesome than it had been yesterday; flames licked upwards all along the mountains of things piled up in the cavernous room, and this time, several of the glowing red snakes could be seen slithering around on the floor, darting between burnt objects.

Potter stared at them, holding his wand aloft but making no move to approach them. The heat was nearly unbearable: it was like standing directly in front of a hot oven.

“They’re Ashwinders,” Draco said, moving to stand behind Potter. He forced himself not to roll his eyes at the blank, questioning expression on Potter’s face when he turned around to look at Draco.

“They’re snakes born from the embers of magical fires,” he explained. “I can only assume that the Room is now infested, given its size and the number of objects it contains.”

Potter frowned, taking in the information. “Then why is everything still on fire?” he asked.

“Ashwinder eggs. They tend to cause fires wherever they’re laid.”

“How do we get rid of them?”

“Fortunately, that part is very simple,” Draco said. He stepped forward, just into the mouth of the room where one of the serpents was curled up. “They’re extremely delicate,” he said, and took aim with his wand. It still felt foreign in his grasp, but hopefully it would cooperate enough for a simple spell.

“ _Diffindo_.”

It worked. The spell hit the snake and, at once, it collapsed into a pile of ash.

“I think you could use just about any offensive spell on it and it’d kick it,” Draco said as he turned to Potter.

Potter’s eyebrows were furrowed as he stepped forward to try for himself. His Severing Charm worked just as well on the next ashwinder. Seeing Potter perform the spell, however, brought something back to mind.

“How did you get the one from yesterday to stop?” Draco asked, remembering how Potter had hissed at the serpent. “What did you say to it?”

At that, Potter actually became awkward. “Er,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I just told it to stop. I didn’t know what would happen after that.”

“Well, it worked, so perhaps you can do it to these ones too? Or at least tell them to stop laying eggs,” Draco said.

“Actually, here’s the thing...I can’t actually speak Parseltongue anymore. At least, I think I can’t. Since Voldemort—” (Draco flinched at the name.) “—died, I lost the ability. It’s...complicated,” he explained lamely.

Draco stared at him. “Well then how did you know what to say yesterday?”

“I dunno...I think I just panicked and shouted the first thing I could remember. That’s sort of how Ron was able to open the Chamber of Secrets in May…”

“...Whatever, Potter. Let’s just focus on getting rid of these things, then.”

“Well, that should be easy then,” Potter said, looking relieved. “If that’s all it takes to get rid of them?”

Draco turned and gave him an incredulous look. He bit back a comment about Potter being stupider than he looked (not that Draco found him stupid-looking at all, these days, his brain added unhelpfully).

“I don’t think you understand how much work this is,” Draco grit out instead. He couldn’t quite stop himself from looking at Potter as if he were an idiot, though, and Potter seemed to notice, because there was now a defiant set about his jaw, which he opened to make some retort.

“Ashwinders die all on their own,” Draco said before Potter could say anything. “They only have an hour long lifespan, and then they become ash. It’s the eggs that are the problem, and the fires. One ashwinder lays about three to five eggs, which set fire to wherever they’re being nested, and then those ashwinders lay another three to five eggs each. And just look at this entire room,” Draco gestured in front of him to the vast, ballroom-like expanse of objects.

Potter’s eyes went round, finally grasping the weight of the task before him. “But...that could take weeks!” he exclaimed. “Not to mention the eggs could be hidden!”

“Glad you’re finally catching on,” Draco said sarcastically. He had a feeling McGonagall had known exactly what she’d sent them off to do and if things were different, he’d march straight to her office and demand that he be given a different task. Or rather, if he was determined to think in the past, he would have gone to his father—Draco hastily shut that thought down. Beside him, Potter was still marvelling at the room.

“I reckon we should put the fires out first, right?” he said. “There are just so many….”

He was right. Now that Draco looked closer, the fire was not one great blaze, but rather had several, smaller sources that coalesced into the flames that licked along each mound of miscellany.

“ _Aguamenti,_ ” Potter said, pointing his wand one of the smaller piles closer to the door. A faucet-like stream of water erupted from the tip of his wand, effectively putting the fire out and turning the burning pile into a mound of grey, smoking rubble, but Potter looked disappointed.

“There has to be a faster way,” he said, looking at Draco.

Draco, however, other concerns on his mind. How was he supposed to conjure water with his wand, when it obviously wasn’t suited to him?

Ignoring Potter, he walked over to a small pile and aimed his wand.

“ _Aguamenti_.” A thin stream of water trickled from the tip, but not enough to completely put out the fire. Frustrated, he tried again, but the result was very much the same.

“ _Extinctus_ ,” he tried, aiming to put the fire out directly. It died down considerably, but there were still glowing embers and small flares dancing across the top.

Draco clutched the wand tighter and his grasp, as if that might improve its channelling of his magic. He could feel Potter’s eyes on the back of his neck, and the temperature of the room wasn’t helping. His robes were beginning to feel awfully heavy, but if he were being truthful, he didn’t think he could quite attribute the heat in his face entirely to the fire around them.

“That wand doesn’t work for you, does it?” Potter said. He phrased it like a question, but it was obvious he wasn’t asking.

“...It’s my grandfather’s,” Draco said shortly, straightening up. He didn’t want to turn around; his mood had taken a steady plunge, and now he was in a foul mood. Those knots in his stomach only grew tighter.

“What happened to your mother’s wand?”

“None of your fucking business,” Draco snapped reflexively. Though he couldn’t see it, he could practically feel Potter’s jaw clenching up.

 _Good_ , Draco thought, _let him be angry. I don’t care._ He wasn’t going to tell Potter what he and his mother saw in their empty Manor those weeks leading up to and following the trial—just the two of them, alone in a house with figurative demons around every corner. He wasn’t going to mention how he knew his mother didn’t sleep at night, nor the look of barely concealed terror that sometimes came across her face when she sometimes happened across a random piece of furniture or houseware that _he_ had used. He certainly wasn’t going to say that he absolutely refused to leave her without even her own wand once he was set to depart for Hogwarts.

Abraxas Malfoy’s old wand had lain in a glass case underneath his portrait in the corridor outside the parlor, and Draco had taken it without a single regard for the protests of his painted grandfather.

“It was just a question,” Potter said defensively. Draco’s temper flared again, and he rounded on Potter.

“And as I said, it is _none_ of your fucking business,” Draco grit out. “So if you could just _leave it_ —”

“Actually,” Potter said, drawing himself up, “I reckon it _is_ my business, since we’re _both_ supposed to be clearing this stuff up,” he gestured around the room, “and I don’t see how that’s possible if I’m the only one who can do half the spells necessary!”

“What’s wrong, Potter?” Draco sneered, now fully angry. Potter looked the same way too, his face flushed from emotion as well as the burning heat around them—it was a very bad time for Draco to notice that the look suited him a lot better than he should have, but the thought only served to make him angrier. “Afraid of a little hard work? Or are you so celebrated now that you’re the _Savior_ that you thought you’d never have to lift another finger?”

“Don’t talk to _me_ about hard work!” Potter retorted, now advancing on Draco. Instinctively, he wanted to reach for his wand before he realized that it was already in his grip, only it was still the wrong one—

“You’re one of the most spoiled gits I’ve ever known, everything handed to you on a silver platter by your father—”

“Don’t you fucking dare talk about my father,” Draco hissed, stepping forward as well.

“I’ll talk about whoever I damn want to!” Potter shouted, green eyes blazing behind his glasses. “And for the record, your father deserved what he got, I’m glad he’s in Azkaban—”

Draco punched him.

Potter stumbled back, knocking right over into a charred pile of objects that was glowing red and orange with embers. He came away with his clothes slightly smoking. Instead of the punch Draco was fully expecting to receive in return, all he got was a glare tinged with something else. _Disappointment_ , a small part of his brain said, but that made no sense, because to be disappointed, one had to have been expecting better in the first place.

Silently, Potter turned away and stalked off between the rows of stacked objects. In the distance, Draco could hear him begin to cast spells to kill the ashwinders and put the fires out.

Strangely, this stung more than any of the things Potter had shouted at him.

 

*

From then on, they worked in silence, Potter having retreated further into the room while Draco was still near the entrance. His wand still refused to work properly, so eventually he gave up on putting out fires and focused on getting rid of ashwinders and eggs he came across.

It was a miserable afternoon, and Draco was feeling absolutely filthy by the time a few hours had gone by—the heat was still pressing in insistently, and he was exhausted and covered in sweat, but Potter hadn’t stopped yet, so he wasn’t going to either. It was only this vindictive drive that pushed him to keep at it, and he may have stomped on a couple ashwinders instead of using his wand, effectively turning them to dust anyhow.

Finally, Potter emerged from between the stacks, looking maddeningly attractive, with his skin glistening with sweat from the firelight and his dark hair wilder than usual. He shouldn’t have looked that way to Draco, he should have looked every bit as tired and grimy as Draco felt. Draco did not greet him, and instead aimed a kick at a serpent that was slithering towards him.

“Look, Malfoy,” Potter said, approaching slowly. He sounded tired, and the thought made Draco feel a little bit better. But then Potter ran a hand through his already messy hair, only the sweat held it in place for once, pushed up and away from Potter’s forehead. It should have been disgusting, but Draco’s heart inexplicably sped up. Potter’s eyes looked so green in the firelight and more noticeable than ever with his hair out of the way.

Potter must have been under the impression that Draco wasn’t paying attention, which couldn’t have been less true, because he clicked his tongue and repeated, “Malfoy. Would you listen?”

Draco didn’t trust himself to speak, so he settled for raising his eyebrows.

“I’m...sorry for what I said earlier,” Potter said, not without some difficulty. “Not that I don’t think it’s true, but I shouldn’t have brought it up. We’re going to be working together for a long time, judging by what little we did today, and I’d rather not spend that entire time fighting with you. So...why don’t we just call it off? At least until we’re done here.”

Draco swallowed. His throat was suddenly very dry. Potter was looking at him with a flicker of something like hope, even though his words sounded rather resigned. Draco still felt like he couldn’t speak, so he nodded once.

“Good,” Potter said, “that’s good. I, er, have something else to ask you as well.”

“What is it?” Draco found that his throat had unstuck and he could speak again.

“Well...er, d’you think you could meet me in the Great Hall during dinner?”

Draco felt his eyebrows climb. “Excuse me?” All his innermost attractions aside, he was certain Potter wasn’t _asking him out_. For one, Potter didn’t even like blokes. And he was with the girl Weasley.

“Just—look, can you be there?” Draco told himself he was imagining the hint of blush on Potter’s face. Surely it was just the heat.

“I suppose,” he said.

“Good. Good...then, er, I’ll see you,” said Potter.

When they left, the air of the corridor was considerably cooler, but Draco could swear that the heat from the fire followed him all the way back to the dungeons.

 

*

When he returned to the dungeons, Draco was greeted by the sight of Charlotte perched on a balustrade, looking distinctly impatient. He hurried over to her.

“Charlotte,” he hissed, “what are you doing waiting out here?” He glanced around nervously—luckily, rarely anyone visited this part of the castle for the summer except for him, and he quickly took her in his arms and hurried into the common room.

“Honestly,” he said when they were inside, “anyone could have seen you.”

Charlotte looked very offended and clicked her beak. Draco paused then—well, so what if someone saw her? There was nothing wrong with her, she was a beautiful owl, and it wasn’t so uncommon to see them out of the owlery every so often.

It was because he wanted to keep her a secret, he realized. A secret but for him and Potter—something shared between just the two of them. A curl of something hot settled in his chest, and it grew when he saw the note attached to Charlotte’s ankle.

 

> _It’s not so much the owl, who by the way reminds me very much of my old owl. Is that why you wanted to give her to me? Sorry, but I can’t just replace Hedwig with her lookalike…_
> 
> _...Nevermind. Anyway._
> 
> _It’s more of the fact that a mysterious stranger who refuses to reveal themselves to me is writing to me._
> 
> _The last time I wrote to someone without knowing who he was didn’t exactly turn out well. Why are you doing this?_

  
Draco read the note over several times, secretly pleased at having received such a lengthy response this time. Of course Potter didn’t trust him; that was to be expected.

It took him a while to think of a reply, especially when Potter’s hesitant manner from earlier kept coming to mind. And Draco was supposed to meet him in the Great Hall later that evening...dear Lord. It seemed Charlotte had caught on to her role as a messenger between them, as well, because she kept nipping Draco’s finger impatiently as he bent with his quill poised over parchment.

“What do you think I should write, Charlotte?” he asked, mindfully ignoring the fact that he was actually talking to an owl. He now wished he had some company, but Pansy still refused to show her face at school, the Zabinis had fucked off to the continent long before last May, and Greg was under house arrest. Charlotte was his only option, and after weeks of speaking to nobody in the common room, she was as good a choice as any.

She, however, didn’t seem to have a very good answer for him, because she clicked her beak and tapped her talons on the parchment a couple times, clearly wanting him to hurry up and not caring about what he would actually write. He wanted Potter to trust him, even a little bit...

Finally, he decided on somewhat of the truth:

 

> _You can check the letters for jinxes and curses, if you like. Charlotte too, although I wouldn’t dare put a spell on her. She’d have my eyes out._
> 
> _Perhaps I just want somebody to talk to._

 

*

He showered quickly before going down to the Great Hall, and sent Charlotte off as he did so.

There was a war of anticipation and dread happening inside of him. He was curious to see what Potter had wanted to meet with him about, but he was sure that his presence in the Great Hall would be completely unwelcome.

He was not sure why his skin had grown so figuratively thin over the summer—a few unpleasant remarks and scathing looks would have been the least of his concerns once upon a time.

Perhaps it was because then, he knew that no matter what, he was still a Malfoy; his name was a source of pride for him. He was taught that he was above others, no matter what they said or did, and this knowledge was absolute and unshakeable.

It was not so anymore, obviously. His father had made sure of that...and so had he. Draco winced, immediately feeling shameful for having thought ill of his father. He pushed the thoughts aside once again, not ready to face them yet—especially not while he was on his way to something much more imminent.

The Great Hall was buzzing when he first entered, so it wasn’t hard to hear the small hush that fell over the room when Draco entered. And then all at once, the buzzing came back, louder than ever as people clustered together and began to talk.

It was a lot less crowded than he had expected, and it took him a moment to figure out why: the only people eating were former students, mostly the soon-to-be eighth years and a couple of seventh years scattered around. The Ministry workers and other volunteers must have gone home, though the professors were all sitting in their usual places at the High Table.

Potter was easy to spot at the Gryffindor table. Draco steeled himself and began walking over. It went relatively well, for all he expected. People didn’t bother hiding their stares, and some outright pointed at him while whispering in hushed tones to their friends. Zacharias Smith gave a cough that suspiciously sounded like “ _Death Eater scum_ ” when Draco passed him, but Draco gave no indication that he had heard.

 _This was obviously what Potter wanted,_ he thought vindictively as he reached the Gryffindor table. _To see me humiliated._

“Well?” he said expectantly, crossing his arms when he reached Potter. He was sitting with Weasley, the girl Weasley, Finnigan, Thomas, Longbottom, and a couple other Gryffindors whose names he’d never bothered to remember.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Weasley demanded aggressively. He looked positively put-out that Draco was there.

“No, it’s alright, I asked him to come,” Potter said. Girl Weasley raised her eyebrows.

“ _You_ asked him to come?” she asked in disbelief. “What for?”

Potter turned to reply to her, and Draco scanned the group subtly. Potter and Weasley were sitting next to each other on one side, and Girl Weasley was sitting next to Thomas, with Finnigan and Longbottom on either of their sides. He was surprised she and Potter weren’t in each other’s laps. From what he’d heard in the weeks following the war, nupitals were to be expected soon.

“Where’s the--where’s Granger?” he asked suddenly, only then nothing the absence of bushy brown hair among the group. Weasley’s face grew red and furious for a moment, but then he seemed to think better of shouting at Draco in the middle of the Great Hall.

“None of your business,” he said shortly instead.

“No, Ron, it’s fine,” Potter said. Draco was mildly surprised--this was twice in an evening so far that Potter had vouched for him. Miracles did happen, it seemed. “She’s in Australia,” Potter answered. “Visiting her parents.”

Draco felt his eyebrows raise. “Her parents are Australian?”

“No, they—” Potter seemed to think better of replying, however, and he snapped his mouth shut before continuing, “They’re just visiting.” It was clear from his tone that the subject was closed.

“Whatever,” Draco said, growing stiffer by the second. “What did you want to see me about?”

Whatever Draco had thought, or whatever fantasies his subconscious had pushed onto him about Potter asking for a meeting with him, it was obviously not going to happen in front of a group of Potter’s Gryffindor friends, much less in front of the entire hall of students and professors. Now Draco just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible; this trip was obviously a waste of his time.

Potter stood up. His group of friends had fallen silent, choosing instead to watch him. Girl Weasley’s eyebrows seemed like they were going to disappear into her hairline soon, Weasley looked extremely apprehensive, Thomas and Finnigan were watching with amused expressions, and Longbottom was trying to pretend like he was concentrated on his food while surreptitiously stealing glances at the scene.

And then Potter reached inside his robes, and pulled something out. Something that Draco thought he’d never see again.

It was his wand, ten inches of hawthorn looking exactly how he remembered it. He stared as Potter held it out, handle facing towards Draco.

“Here,” Potter said, sounding a little sheepish. “I thought you should have it back...not just because we have to work together, but because it’s yours.”

Draco, speechless, reached out and took his wand. It felt immediately warm in his grasp, familiar, like coming home after a long day out. He knew at once that it would work, and the feeling of his magic concentrating itself in the wood gave him a sudden spurt of confidence to look up and into Potter’s eyes.

They were as green as ever, and something unreadable, yet meaningful flashed behind them before Potter let go of the other end of the wand.

Draco raised the wand experimentally, and shot several silver sparks that glimmered in the air for a few seconds before dying away. Dimly, he noticed the group of Gryffindors all immediately looked guarded the moment he raised his wand, as if he was going to hex Potter here and now. Weasley even began reaching for his own wand.

Potter, on the other hand, wasn’t even looking at the wand. He was looking at Draco with the same unreadable expression, and Draco couldn’t help but feel if only he could decipher what that look meant, it would surely be important.

“...Thank you,” he finally said, the words rising to his lips from somewhere within him. He meant them, he realized--he was thankful. It was a strangely new feeling.

“Don’t mention it,” Potter said, and then he looked around, as if only now remembering they were in the middle of the Great Hall. “Er,” he said, seemingly at a loss for words, “if...if you haven’t eaten yet, do you want to join us?”

Draco gaped at him. He wasn’t the only one--the Gryffindors were also apparently shocked into silence.

Draco looked around at them and shook his head. Potter giving him his wand back was one thing; Draco actually sitting down and breaking bread with Gryffindors was something entirely different. “No, thank you,” he said. “I...I have to go.”

And he turned on his heel and left, wand still clutched possessively in his hand.

 

*

To his surprise, Charlotte inside the Slytherin common room when Draco returned, perched comfortably on a loveseat, looking quite like she belonged there.

“How did you get in here?” Draco asked her. She twittered happily and stood, revealing that she had been sitting on a folded sheet of parchment. That was fast--Draco had sent the note barely before leaving for the Great Hall, and Potter was already there when he’d arrived.

Had he been expecting his response? Waiting for it, even?

No, of course not, Draco thought, trying to quell the quickening of his traitorous pulse.

The note, when he unfolded it, read:

 

> _Of course I’m checking for jinxes and things, otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered replying in the first place._
> 
> _Haven’t you got friends or anything? Why do you keep trying to give me this owl?_
> 
> _Actually, that reminds me...Hagrid asked if I had gotten a new owl the other day too. This hasn’t anything to do with that, does it? Maybe I should ask him. Looks like I might find out who you are soon after all._

  
Shit.

_Shit._

Draco continued to curse mentally, and then aloud--Charlotte looked offended at his language, but honestly, she’d have to get used to it. He let go of the letter, letting it drift down onto the cushions and instead pushing his fingers against his temple. What could he do?

Well, there was nothing else for it, he decided.

He got to his feet at once and began heading for the exit, then on second thought, scooped Charlotte up and brought her along as well. He wasn’t so inclined to pay Hagrid a visit without her just yet.

 

*

Knocking on the door this time had none of the previous trepidation, especially since Draco was so anxious to speak with Hagrid this time. What if Potter had already been down to visit? He had left the Great Hall some time ago, and it was possible that Potter had left just after Draco did and had gone straight to Hagrid’s.

He was met with an overly-excited Fang and a surprised Hagrid.

“Malfoy,” he greeted in surprise, though not unpleasantly. “Didn’ know yeh’d be comin’ round! Come in, come in,” he gestured, opening the door wider. “Everythin’ all righ’? Charlotte’s not havin’ any trouble with her wing, is she?”

“No, Charlotte’s quite all right,” Draco replied. On his shoulder, Charlotte blinked proudly.

“Glad ter hear it,” Hagrid said, and then he pulled out one of the enormous chairs at his table and beckoned for Draco to sit. “Have a seat...let me get yeh a cup o’ tea…”

Draco let Hagrid bustle around the cabin for a while; a few minutes later, he returned carrying a large tray of tea, owl treats, and a plate of what looked like lumps of packed dirt with little flecks of raisins in them.

“Rock cakes, made ‘em meself,” Hagrid said proudly when he caught Draco looking. “Help yerself if yer feelin’ peckish.”

Though Draco had not had dinner yet, he felt sure he’d rather starve than touch one of the cakes.

“No, thank you, I’m allergic to raisins,” he lied smoothly.

“Well, all righ’ then,” Hagrid said, seemingly unaffected. “So what can I help yeh with?”

“I have a question...and possibly a favor to ask,” Draco said, folding his hands on the table in front of him. Charlotte fluttered down from his shoulder and began pecking at the dish of owl treats on the tray. “Has...has Potter been down to see you lately?” He cursed himself inwardly for sounding so nervous.

“Harry? Why, ‘course he has, he came jus’ last week,” Hagrid replied, apparently not having noticed any of Draco’s nerves. The relief Draco felt was instantaneous. “Why d’yeh ask?”

Draco could tell Hagrid was trying not to sound suspicious, but he wasn’t the most subtle man. “I’m trying to give Charlotte to him, but he won’t accept,” Draco said.

“Ar, I’d figured yeh’d decided to keep her when I saw yeh bring her jus’ now,” Hagrid said. “But Harry doesn’ wan’ her? Tha’s strange, I thought he’d fer sure wan’ to at least get to know her.” He stroked his massive beard in musing.

“Yes, so...I’m trying to convince him to take her. Er. But he doesn’t know it’s me. So, that’s what the favor is. If Potter comes asking after Charlotte or me, could you please not tell him? I...I’m trying something out, and I’d really like for it to work,” Draco explained, hoping he sounded sincere enough. To his own ears, he sounded stiff and polite--he still had no idea how to act around Hagrid based on their limited interactions the past week.

Hagrid tried and failed this time not to look suspicious. “Why don’ yeh wan’ to tell Harry? I’m sure he’d appreciate the gesture,” he said. “Malfoy...I don’ wanna say it, but yer not up to—”

“I’m not _up to_ anything,” Draco said quickly. “I’m not doing anything wrong. I swear.”

Next to him, Charlotte gave a hoot, as if vouching for him. She looked very adamant from where he was sitting, staring up at Hagrid.

It was this more than anything, Draco thought, that made Hagrid visibly relax. He was incredibly glad that he’d thought to bring Charlotte along.

“All righ’, I believe you,” Hagrid said. “I won’ say nothin’ to Harry if he asks, just as long as yeh promise me yer not gonna do anythin’ to hurt him. Can yeh do that?” Hagrid no longer looked suspicious, but he was looking at Malfoy rather intently, and it struck him, for the first time, that Hagrid was technically a professor.

Draco swallowed and then said, “Yes, I can.”

Hagrid nodded, satisfied.

“Good. Well, if yeh had anythin’ else yeh wanted ter talk abou’? Somehow I doubt yeh came ter shoot the breeze,” Hagrid said.

“No, that should be all,” Draco said, standing up. Charlotte fluttered onto his shoulder the moment he rose, and he stroked her wing absently. Then he paused.

“Actually,” he said, “there is one more thing. I never thanked you for tending to Charlotte. So...thank you.”

Hagrid actually looked a little lost at that, and then immediately broke out into a smile. “Happy ter help,” he said a little thickly. “Say, bin meanin’ ter ask one o’ yeh, how’s yer project with Harry goin’ along? Made any progress?”

Draco thought about the rather fruitless toil he’d spent his day on, de-ashwindering the place. He’d hardly even made a dent in just the entrance area alone, especially since he couldn’t put out any of the fires so the eggs just kept hatching and then spawning even more eggs.

But then he thought back to earlier that evening, in the Great Hall, Potter holding his hawthorn wand out to him and the quiet sincerity that had been in his eyes when he handed it over to Draco.

“Yeah,” Draco finally said. “I’d say we have.”

 

*

The first thing he’d done when he’d gone back to the castle after visiting Hagrid was head up to the Owlery to send his grandfather’s wand back to his mother at the Manor using one of the school owls. At the same time, he’d written his response to Potter. ( _I’m not sure what Hagrid has to do with this. If you don’t want to talk anymore all you have to do is stop replying and keep Charlotte. I’ll tell you something about myself, then: I’m a student. Now it’s your turn._ )

The next morning found Charlotte once again nestled in her love seat in the common room when Draco went out for breakfast. He suspected the elves of letting her in—she could be very charming. Nevertheless, her presence was not unwelcome as she had another note with her.

> That’s not exactly a secret, I could have guessed that on my own. Anyway, I don’t know what you want to know that everybody doesn’t already know. I’m not exactly unknown.

 

Draco was relieved; Hagrid had apparently kept good on his word not to tell Potter his identity, and Potter had predictably not kept the owl. His response this time was quickly written.

 

> _I never said we should exchange secrets, I asked you to tell me something about yourself. If you’re looking for a secret though, I suppose I could tell you something I’ve never told anyone else…_

  
Draco hesitated here, wondering what he should reveal. Something about his past? Thoughts about his future? Both were rather bleak looking, all things considered. He frowned. This wasn’t part of the plan—he wanted Potter’s attention, his curiosity; he didn’t want to go spilling his innermost thoughts to the prat.

Or did he? He didn’t know. He wanted Potter’s trust, that was all. Even if Potter didn’t know it was him. And there it was—the rush of anonymity brought him confidence once again. Draco bit his lip and then finally wrote, deciding on something truthful.

 

> _I’ve never been taught how to apologize before. But I think I need to learn._

 

*

Things got substantially better for he and Potter working in the Room after Draco got his wand back.

That same morning, they managed to put the whole room out by using an Aguamenti Maxima—something Draco had wanted to try originally, but forgot about in his frustration from arguing with Potter. However, the smoke still lingered behind and stung at both of their eyes. It hung over the room in large clouds, and there was now a musty smell of wet wood clinging to every surface, but things were a lot easier to navigate when the entire room wasn’t ablaze.

“Malfoy, over here,” Potter called from a few yards away. Beneath layers of burnt and ashy furniture were glowing embers, surrounded by a nest of a few ashwinder eggs. “I think there might be more in there, too.”

Draco huffed. At this rate, they were going to keep finding hidden nests of eggs for the rest of time. “There has to be an easier way,” he said. “We can’t just comb over the entire place looking for these blasted eggs.”

“We could try Summoning them?” Potter suggested.

“We both know that doesn’t work in here,” Draco said lowly, giving him a look. Potter averted his eyes.

“Right,” Potter muttered. “Sorry.”

Things grew awkward between them at the mention of their encounter in the Room from May. Draco was suddenly aware of how stupidly close they were standing, both craning their necks to get a look at the nest. He stepped away.

That was another problem: it had only been one morning so far, and yet his brain had already gone lax enough to allow intrusive thoughts to form.

Though the room was no longer oppressively hot, they had still worked up a sweat from constantly searching and casting, and it the sheen of it looked inappropriately good on Potter’s skin. Potter’s lips were pursed in thought, and Draco’s own lips suddenly went very dry. He must be going mad, he decided.

Not wanting to prolong their proximity any longer, Draco lifted his wand briskly and Vanished the entire pile of gently smoldering debris. Potter lifted his eyebrows at him, but Draco just shrugged.

“Seemed faster,” he said, but he doubted that he could do it again. That had to have been at least fifty objects at once, and he might have had his old wand back, but there was a limit to the amount of complicated Transfiguration work he could do in a day.

“Why don’t we actually take a break?" Potter suggested, wiping a hand across his forehead. "It's nearly lunchtime."

Draco wanted to say no, or perhaps tell Potter to go ahead, but just then his stomach gave a traitorous growl. Potter raised his eyebrows, bemused, and Draco scowled.

"Fine," he said. "Let's meet back here in an hour then."

"Actually," Potter said, shifting from foot to foot. "Why don't you come to the Great Hall? I never see you there...." He trailed off at the look on Draco's face, a blush dusting his face. "Old habits die hard, I guess," he mumbled under his breath.

"I don't know if you've noticed, Potter, but I'm not exactly Mr. Popularity right about now. Surely even with your poor eyesight you should be able to see that."

"Since when has either of us ever let that stop us?" Potter said with a wry twist of his lips.

He may have had a point, once, but Draco thought it was rather irrelevant now. When Draco still hadn't said anything, Potter continued.

"I just thought that...it can't be very fun, taking your meals alone every day," he said. And then he seemed to make a split-second decision, because then he blurted, "Er, listen, why don't you come down and we can go to the Great Hall together?"

Draco stared. Potter seemed shocked at himself for asking, but he stood firm, looking at Draco with those awful, sincere eyes.

He wanted to say no. Hadn't he faced this exact situation the other night and said no? He was going to say no.

"All right."

The smile that broke over Potter's face was a little overwhelming. Draco wanted to rub his eyes, or perhaps pinch himself.

 

*

The overt staring and whispering was one thing. Draco could handle that.

Having to sit down across from the Weasleys was something entirely else. Caught up in his turbulent thoughts regarding Potter's reaction, he'd entirely forgotten that sitting with Potter inevitably meant sitting at the Gryffindor table. With Weasley. And Girl Weasley, apparently, as she was sitting next to her brother and arching a critical eyebrow up at him.

He supposed he should be glad that Granger was out of the country.

"What's he doing here?" Weasley demanded the moment Draco sat down. He made sure not to sit too close to Potter, but he could still feel the warmth of Potter's body next to him. Their elbows were nearly touching.

"Well, we were working on the Room of Requirement together and decided to come down for lunch," Potter said.

"You just... _decided_. To bring Malfoy to lunch with you," Girl Weasley spoke, her voice very flat.

"Er...yeah," Potter said. "That's about right."

"Look, Harry, I know you said he's not like the way he was before—"

"I'll thank you kindly, Weasley, to not speak about me as if I weren't _sitting right here_ ," Draco interjected. He had settled on acting above it all, as if he were deigning to sit with them. It was very much a defense mechanism, reverting back to his old behaviors; he was aware, but there was nothing else to be done for the lead weight in his stomach telling him that this was a mistake. No matter how close he and Potter were to brushing elbows.

Weasley grew red, and opened his mouth, but Potter interrupted.

"Just drop it, Ron, okay?"

Weasley closed his mouth, and Draco bit back the nasty comment about being an order-following lackey, instead choosing to rip sullenly into a dinner roll.

"So anyway," Girl Weasley said, voice strained but obviously trying to make an effort. "How's the Room going?"

"It's going well, I think," Potter said. "Malfoy actually thought of using _Aguamenti Maxima_ to put out all the fires at once. Saved us a lot of time, can't believe I hadn't thought of it before."

Girl Weasley raised her eyebrows. Draco got the impression that she wasn't terribly impressed.

Draco wondered what Potter saw in her. He supposed she was attractive, in a gingery type of way. She wasn't a terrible Quidditch player, if he was being honest with himself, and she didn't seem half as obnoxious as her older brothers, but still. Her? Surely Potter could do better.

 _Like me_ , his subconscious supplied. He swallowed. Potter's elbow felt closer than ever. Draco wanted to get up and leave, but he was rooted to the spot. Why was Potter sitting next to him anyway? Shouldn't he go over and cuddle up next to Girl Weasley?

"How are you going to find all the rest of the ashwinders, though? They're nasty to get rid of, my Uncle Bilius had an infestation in his backyard once. Took him ages to sort out," Weasley said.

"I was just asking the same thing, actually...there has to be some kind of spell to get rid of them all at once, isn't there? Or at least to make it easier?"

"You should ask Hermione when she gets back, she'd know."

Just then, Dean Thomas came up to the table, taking a seat next to Girl Weasley. He wrapped his arm around her waist and gave her a peck on the lips and said cheerfully, "Hey everyone...and Malfoy?" he added cautiously when he caught sight of Draco.

Draco blinked, and then looked at Potter. Potter didn't seem to think anything was amiss, until he noticed Draco looking at him. Immediately, his eyes rounded as he glanced over at Girl Weasley and Dean, and then back at Draco, before ducking his head and looking very intently at the chicken on his plate. The back of his neck was red beneath his unkempt hair.

 _Potter and Girl Weasley weren't together anymore_ , Draco realized dazedly.

The fact that the lead weight in his stomach seemed to have lessened considerably should have made him uneasy, but it felt...well, it felt liberating. Immediately he sat up straighter and began helping himself to roast potatoes, having regained his appetite. Ginevra—because that was her name, after all, and he couldn't very well call her Weasley when the actual Weasley was sitting right there—looked at him with mild curiosity mixed with distaste.

"If you like," Draco said suddenly in a conversational tone, "we can go to the library later and perhaps research some ways to get rid of the ashwinders more efficiently.”

He really shouldn't be arranging to spend any more time with Potter than strictly necessary—he was doing enough, after all, between working on the Room and his anonymous correspondence via Charlotte. Not to mention the fact that they were having a meal together right now, even if several other Gryffindors were also in attendance.

"That's a good idea," Potter said. "We can go tomorrow evening?"

"Sure."

Weasley was looking between the two of them like they'd each grown several heads, and suddenly Draco was struck with the same feeling that had compelled him to apologize to Hagrid that first night he'd found Charlotte.

"Weasley," he said, ignoring the fact that Weasley immediately looked guarded, as if he was expecting one of Draco's usual insults. "Let me make this clear: Potter was right. I'm not the same as before. I don't think any of us are. That being said, I realize that I was an utter prick to you in the past. So I apologize."

Weasley looked utterly nonplussed, as did Potter and Ginevra and even Thomas, now that Draco looked around the table.

"Er," Weasley managed to get out. He truly seemed to be at a loss for words. His ears were growing redder by the second.

Embarrassment and regret was beginning to creep up inside Draco at the response—he hadn't been expecting another tearful acceptance by any means, but this was still very difficult.

Ginny burst out laughing suddenly, snorting and thumping Weasley on the back.

"Ow!" Weasley rubbed his shoulder where Ginny actually punched him in her amusement.

"Who are you and what have you done with Malfoy?" Ginny said. Her tone was rather sardonic, but her eyes showed less of the guarded hostility than before.

Potter chanced a laugh then, too, and then even Weasley cracked a smile.

"Bloody hell, Malfoy," Weasley said. "You scared me. Some apology, you looked like you were going to murder either me or yourself there."

Draco felt his lips twitch. "Well?"

"Yeah, alright. Doesn't make up for all the shit you put us through, but it's a start," Weasley said. "Blimey...I thought I'd become the next Headmaster before I ever heard Malfoy say 'Potter was right'," he said, still looking dazed.

"Yes, well. As I've said, things have changed," Draco said evenly.

"Yeah, I'll say," Weasley said, still looking slightly bewildered. "Draco Malfoy, apologizing...." He shook his head, and then dove back into his lunch with gusto.

Next to him, Potter's elbow finally bumped with his, accompanied by a small smile.

 

*

The rest of the day went by relatively easily after that; it was like the confrontation at lunchtime broke some kind of invisible barrier between he and Potter. Things were a lot more relaxed when they returned to the Room.

"That went a lot better than I expected it to," Potter said when they first got back. "I definitely never would have predicted that happening."

"Well, there's a lot you don't know about me, Potter," Draco said, trying and failing not to sound smug.

"...So tell me about yourself, then," Potter said. He was trying to sound casual, Draco could tell, but the question made him think of the very same one he had written to Potter in one of Charlotte's letters. He suddenly found himself nervous.

"As much as I'd love to chat, Potter, I believe we have some snakes to kill?" Draco asked, raising an eyebrow and hoping that Potter wouldn't think to look past his bravado.

It worked, apparently, because Potter wasn't even looking at him. He was looking at some point past Draco's shoulder, with a blush on his face. "Right," he said, and then abruptly turned away and began searching for more egg nests.

He followed along the path Potter was taking at a distance; now armed with the knowledge that he wasn't tied down to Ginevra Weasley, Draco was bolder than ever in his staring. Potter's utter obliviousness was the only thing saving him, Draco knew, as he let his gaze drop to the curve of Potter's arse as Potter bent over examine something.

The only noises for a while were the sounds of things being shifted and kicked around, along with the occasional spell from the either of them if they found a nest. Draco, not feeling particularly chatty since lunch and the oblique reference Potter had given to his letter, was perfectly happy to keep the silence. Potter was the one who finally broke it, minutes later.

"Thank you," he said quietly, so that at first Draco wasn't sure if he had heard it at all. But then Potter cleared his throat, straightened up, and then looked at Draco. "For saying that, earlier at lunch. I know it was probably really hard for you—"

"It wasn't."

"Er—sorry?"

"It wasn't," Draco said again, realizing that the words were true. It wasn't hard—just like it hadn't been hard with Hagrid. Building up to saying the words was hard. Thinking about it was hard—hell, the first time an apology had crossed his mind, Draco had firecalled with his mother to talk about inane things for an hour just in order to remember that he was a Malfoy.

That's why he never did any of those things whenever the urge struck him—never built it up, never thought about it. He went for it abruptly and with as little thought as possible. It was a reckless, Gryffindor thing of him to do, but it was effective nonetheless. If he thought about it, he reckoned he'd get lost in the politics of how to go about doing it. Which words to use, how he should posture himself, which exact moment to choose to say the words. An apology fit for a Malfoy, the way he'd been taught to show remorse if the situation ever called for it.

But the past year had left him feeling so raw that all the carefully cultivated layers he'd built up over the years had been chafed away, leaving him just as he was at his core. As just Draco.

He'd been left alone for weeks, and it was pointless now to pretend that the loneliness hadn't affected him. Reflecting back on his actions was obviously something he was supposed to be doing, according to the council that had sentenced him. He just never expected that he'd actually be doing it.

"It wasn't hard," he said to Potter. "I just thought it was about time, that's all."

"Yeah," Potter agreed. "I'm still glad you did it, either way. It's like...like...," he struggled for words.

"Like?" Draco prompted him.

"Like, well," Potter said, trying to keep the awkwardness out of his voice. "Just...do you ever think about how—if we weren't us—or if none of the stuff with the war ever existed, that we could be friends?"

Immediately, Draco's mind went to the letters, where he was trying to do just that.

He was kidding himself, he realized now, at trying to have power over Potter or gain some kind of in through having Potter's trust. He wanted now what he had wanted all those years ago, as a boy on the Hogwarts Express: to be Potter's friend.

"I do," Draco said. "I think about it very much. But Potter—we _are_ us. All the stuff with the war does exist," he pointed out quietly.

"Did," Potter corrected. "It did exist. But it doesn't have to anymore."

There was a hopeful note in his voice. Draco was convinced he wasn't imagining it this time.

"I suppose so," he said. Potter smiled, and tentatively, he returned it.

 

*

“How in the blazes do you keep getting in here?” Draco asked when he returned to the common room that night to find Charlotte lounging once again in the common room, a goblet of water by her side and a dish of owl treats on the table. “And where did you get all that stuff from?”

She clicked a few times and picked up the folded note by her side with her beak before fluttering over to Draco and dropping the note in his hands.

 

> _Do you have many things you need to apologize for?_
> 
> _Before, I thought that some things could never be fixed, no matter how many apologies were made, but someone recently changed my mind about that. I think as long as you’re sincere, things will be all right._
> 
> _Something about myself...I don’t think I want this summer to end, even if that means Hogwarts has to stay closed like this. Is that selfish of me?_

  
Draco read the letter over several times before folding it up neatly and putting it in his pocket.

He sat down in front of the fireplace. Charlotte followed him, settling on his knee and peering into his face curiously.

“What do you think of all this, Charlotte?” he asked. “Do you think what I’m doing is strange?”

Charlotte hooted, blinking a couple of times. Draco got the impression that she didn’t care what he was doing so long as she got to keep delivering letters as frequently as she was. He stroked her head softly, marvelling at how she had affected him. She put in motion this plan for correspondence with Potter, and in a way, she was the root of the conflict he was feeling right now.

Yes, he undoubtedly had many things to apologize for. On some days, he felt the guilt and terror in waves threatening to overwhelm him; on others, he felt he had only done what he had to do. He sighed, leaning his head back on the armchair he was resting in, and recalled Potter’s testimony during his trial.

He had been acting under threat of death for him and his family; he was barely of age, acting under duress; he had failed to identify Potter at the Manor that day, and must have done so for a reason.

There was no special reason, Draco thought miserably. He had simply been too scared to act either way—terrified of what would happen if he said yes, terrified of what would happen if he said no. Even now he couldn’t bear to think about what might have happened either way.

As if sensing his turbulent thoughts, Charlotte twittered and hopped further along his leg, cocking her head and blinking into his face.

“Sorry,” Draco said. He petted her head once again and she nipped his finger softly. She really was a wonderful creature, he decided. He was very glad he decided to save her that day.

In fact, the thought of Potter keeping her for good, as Draco fully intended to hand Charlotte over to him once whatever he was doing was over, made him uneasy. He’d never been attached to an animal before, and it was a relationship unlike any of the ones he’d ever known, and much deeper than he would have thought possible between two different species.

They all wanted the same thing in the end—food, shelter, and something meaningful to do, Draco thought, recalling Hagrid’s words.

He ate quickly when the house elves came to deliver his meal. He couldn’t help but notice, however, that the food from lunch with Potter seemed to have tasted much better than his dinner. And he didn’t think it had anything to do with the elves’ cooking.

In the morning, he wrote and sent Charlotte off with his response before breakfast.

 

> _I do._
> 
> _I think I want the same thing. Perhaps that makes the both of us selfish. What do you think?_

 

*

“What are you so happy about?” Draco asked, an hour after he and Potter began work on the Room the next day. Potter had been smiling randomly all morning, his good mood undeterred by the several ashy dust clouds that rained on top of them after they dislodged some charred furniture to get to the nest hiding beneath it.

“Hm, what?” Potter asked as he distractedly stepped on an ashwinder. “Oh, nothing...well, it’s just that Hermione’s coming back today.”

Ah, Granger. That would do it. Draco hummed noncommittally.

“Yeah, since school is starting in a few days, she’s come back to join us so we can have a few days,” Potter said. “I imagine she’ll be a nightmare for the rest of the year, though, with NEWTs and all.”

“That I understand,” Draco said. He’d been spending all his free time going over course material and doing extra studying. In fact, he was considering adding more subjects to sit for in order to make his credentials just a little bit more impressive by the time he left Hogwarts. “Aren’t you worried about your exams at all?” asked Draco.

Potter shrugged. “I am,” he said, “but not especially. It’s hard to worry about exams right after a war, you know?”

Draco did not know, because his future would likely be determined by those exams in a way that Potter’s would not be, but he chose to keep silent.

“What on earth was she doing in Australia, anyway? Don’t tell me her parents actually do live there?”

Potter seemed to struggle for a moment with himself, and Draco wondered if he shouldn’t have asked. “It’s...complicated,” Potter settled for.

“All right,” Draco said, and let the subject drop.

“You know,” Potter said after a while, sounding lost in his thoughts, “cleaning up in here and getting rid of these creatures reminds me of being in Grimmauld Place.”

“Grimmauld Place?” Draco asked.

“It’s the Black family home,” Potter said. “Sirius left it to me after he died.”

“I know what it is,” Draco said. “I’ve been there.”

Potter looked confused for a moment before understanding cleared his face. “Oh,” he said. “I forgot...your mother was a Black.”

Draco nodded. “I was very small, though. I don’t remember much of it...why does this remind you of it, though?” He looked around. The place was covered in grey ash and dust and blackened, splintered piles of trash. Was this what the Black family home had become like?

“Well, it didn’t look exactly like this,” Potter said, noticing Draco’s looking around. “The first time I went there was the summer before fifth year. We spent the entire time de-doxying place and cleaning out old things.”

“We?”

“Me, Hermione, Ron, Ginny, George and—and the Weasleys,” Potter said stiltedly, and Draco realized he must have been about to mention Fred Weasley. Draco shifted uncomfortably, feeling the odd, muted sense of shame well up in him again. He hadn't been the one to bring it up, but it still felt very raw all the same.

“I see,” Draco said. He certainly wasn’t going to comment on the fact that an ancestral pureblood home as old and noble as the Grimmauld Place should never have fallen into disrepair enough for doxies to move in. It wasn’t his concern anyway.

 

*

The library at night was a curious place, especially during the summer; Madam Pince was nowhere to be found, which in itself shocked Draco, as that implied that she had some sort of life beyond the books in Hogwarts’ massive collection.

Potter was late, but only by a minute or two, and Draco could immediately see why. A head of bushy brown hair followed him; he had brought Granger.

Draco suppressed a scowl; this was precisely why he had declined Potter’s invitations to lunch and dinner again. He hadn’t wanted to face Granger, not because he was reluctant to see her and make the apology he knew he’d have to make at some point, but because he knew she was much too perceptive for her own good. Weasley was as dense as a brick, as was Potter himself, so no doubt they couldn’t even think to misinterpret the strange almost-friendship they had struck up.

Ginny Weasley was another matter, Draco thought, given the sharp look in her eye that was rather hawkish and not unlike Professor McGonagall’s.

Granger, on the other hand...Granger would be able to see right through Draco. If not right away, then eventually, but it was inevitable.

“I see you brought someone along,” Draco said by way of greeting. “Granger,” he nodded at her.

“Malfoy,” Granger said, rather magnanimously.

“I asked Hermione if she could help us with our problem,” Potter explained. “I mean...if that’s okay with you.”

Granger was looking rather critically at Draco, but not with the open hostility that she’d give him in the past; Draco took this to mean that Potter, and perhaps Weasley, had filled her in on their ceasefire and, presumably, Draco’s apology.

“I’m sure she’s the only reason you passed half your classes during school, so I’m sure she’ll be of use,” Draco said, and Granger cracked a smile.

“Unfortunately, that’s probably true,” Potter said, and Granger’s smile turned genuine.

“Don’t say that, Harry, you’re very capable,” she said. “I think you were quite busy with other things back then.”

“Er, right,” Potter said. “Anyway, shall we begin?”

“Right,” Draco said, and he led the way towards the stacks to the left of the entrance.

“Where are you going?” Potter asked. “The Magical Creatures section is the other way.”

“Oh,” Draco said. “Well, I don’t think there’s much we can learn from researching the actual ashwinders themselves. Our problem is with the Room of Requirement itself, since we can’t cast things like Summoning Charms, and that means we should probably research how the room functions.”

Potter was looking at him with his eyebrows raised, and he could tell Granger was trying not to look impressed.

“You know,” she said, “I think he’s right.”

Potter blinked at her. “All right then,” he said. “Where do we start?”

“Transfigurations,” Draco said.

They spent a good deal of time gathering large tomes and works and flipping through them at an empty table, but it was difficult to narrow down the kinds of things they needed to look for when the subject itself was so broad. So they gathered as much as possible of what they thought was relevant and worked through stacks of books, earmarking and underlining things they thought useful. Madam Pince would surely have a conniption if she saw them right now.

Potter was off shelving some of the duds he had gathered, so Draco was alone with Granger at the table they had taken. He wavered for a moment, observing Granger flip through the pages with alarming speed as she read. It was terrifying, he thought, because he knew she had total retention of the things she read, too.

Without looking up from her thick volume on architectural transfiguration, she said, “Yes, Malfoy?”

Draco dropped his gaze, and closed his book. Its thud caused her to look up at him, eyebrows raised. He cleared his throat. He would have to do it now.

“Granger,” he began, but she held a hand up.

“It’s fine, Malfoy. Save it,” she said.

“But you don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

She sighed. “You were about to apologize, weren’t you? Well, don’t. I don’t need to hear it.”

He stared at her. She sighed again.

“You know, Malfoy, a few weeks ago I would have loved to hear an apology from you, and a few months before that I would have loved to hear one and then throw it right back in your face. I truly hated you for a long while...but so much has happened since then. And then Harry told me about how you two were working together and getting along, and I didn’t want to believe it, and then I heard from _Ron_ of all people that you had apologized to him." She took a deep breath before looking at him and asking, "Have you ever felt that way, where you think you want something very badly, and then when you’re about to get it, you find that you actually don’t need it at all?”

Draco honestly couldn’t say that he had, but he didn’t speak. She continued.

“When I saw you tonight, I just...I knew, Malfoy, all right? I knew you felt badly for everything that you’d done and I know you’re trying to make things right, in your own way. So long as you don’t hurt Harry, that’s enough for me. So keep your apologies; save them for someone else.”

Draco was speechless. She, of all the people he had tormented in school, perhaps deserved an apology the most. And yet she rejected it, which didn’t make Draco feel angry or ashamed as he thought it might, but he felt rather like things were going to be all right. He felt hopeful.

He nodded mutely, and she sat back in her chair, satisfied.

“While we’re at it, I think we might as well get this out the way: if you’re going to be sticking around, I’d like you to call me Hermione,” she said firmly.

God, this was going to be so weird. Draco said, “All right...Hermione,” and she smiled.

“Good,” she said. “And by the way, Draco, I’d not underestimate Harry. He can be a lot more observant than you think.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She gave him a look and shrugged mysteriously before turning back to her book.

 _Shit_ , Draco thought. It had been barely two hours spent together and already she knew. Draco didn’t know if this was because he was getting more and more transparent or if Hermione Granger was every bit as clever as he never wanted to believe.

When Potter returned, Hermione gathered up her books and stood.

“Where are you going?” Potter asked, setting down a new stack of volumes for him to look through.

Hermione’s cheeks colored, and she looked down. “Oh,” she said, “well, er, I told Ron I’d spend some time with him tonight, since it’s my first night back and all.” Her face was pink.

“Oh,” Potter said shortly in understanding. “Yeah, that’s fine, go on ahead.”

“Sorry, Harry, but I’ll keep looking through these later on and hopefully we’ll be able to figure this out before school starts,” she said as she put her things in her bag and headed off. “Bye Harry, Draco,” she called as she turned round the corner and out of sight.

Potter’s eyebrows were raised, but he made no comment on her use of Draco’s given name. They read on in silence for a while. Draco was absorbed in the book he had chosen to look at—mental, non-incantation based Transfiguration was incredibly complicated—before Potter spoke again.

“Doing all this research makes me feel like school’s already started,” he said, his tone lighthearted.

“I imagine it’s going to be much worse than this once school actually begins, Potter,” Draco said. It was true; the stack of books he had was small compared to the material he would probably start going over once classes began.

“How many NEWTs are you taking?”

Draco hesitated for moment before answering, “Eight.”

Potter whistled. “That’s more than even Hermione’s taking,” he said. “I think the only person I know who’s taken more than that is Percy Weasley.”

“Well...exams are important,” Draco said.

“Do you know what you’re going to do after school, then?” Potter asked.

Draco remained silent for a while, before giving a small shake of his head. “I’ll do whatever best option comes by way, I suspect,” he said. “I imagine I don’t any much choice otherwise.”

Potter frowned. “There isn’t something you want to do? I thought your marks were all very good.”

Draco briefly considered the fact that Potter seemed to have kept tabs on his schoolwork before answering. “I don’t know if there’s anything I’d especially like to do, but I doubt anywhere that has a good position open would be willing to hire an ex-Death Eater.”

“Oh,” Potter said quietly, like he hadn’t thought of that. He probably hadn’t—Draco didn’t know whether this was indicative of Potter’s naivety or whether it meant that Potter did not view him through the same lens society did. He decided not to linger on the matter.

“Anyway,” Draco said, not bothering to keep the bitterness from his voice, “if I have no alternative I suppose I’ll become Lord of the Manor like my father and languish in our independent wealth. Assuming the Ministry doesn’t drain our Gringotts vault dry.” His tone left no hint that he thought anything on the contrary might happen.

Potter looked like he wanted to say something, but he held back. Draco was grateful.

 

*

Charlotte came that night when Draco was getting ready for bed; it was the only time she’d arrived in the common room after him, and Draco could have sworn he heard a _pop_ from inside his dormitory before he went to check. Sure enough, Charlotte was there, letter clamped dutifully in her beak. He stared very hard at her. It was simply not possible for owls to Apparate, he thought to himself firmly. Charlotte was indeed not like any owl he’d ever used before, but even she couldn’t do something like that.

Ignoring the conundrum of Charlotte’s travel methods, he took the letter while she flew over to the windowsill and peered out into the murky depths of the lake.

 

> _I don’t know. Maybe. Here’s another question...do you think the world can see that people have changed?_
> 
> _I know someone who’s changed, and it’s a change that I never would have thought possible before. But his prospects don’t look good because of who he once was. If I can see that he’s different, why can’t everyone else?_

  
Draco swallowed thickly after reading the letter. It was plain that Potter was talking about him, and he pressed his lips together at the irony of the situation. Here Potter was consulting an anonymous stranger in a rather philosophical conversation, not even knowing that it was Draco himself.

He didn’t know how to reply, so he set the letter aside and decided to answer in the morning. His dreams that night were of criminal trials, handshakes, and fiery Death Eater masks.

 

*

Draco was going mad, he was sure of it.

The Room of Hidden Things was not a room at all, he thought, because it surely had no end. True to its name, _things_ kept going on and on, making winding, precarious footpaths in between towering piles of scraps and miscellany. They had been working on the Room for nearly two weeks now, and still the end was nowhere near in sight. The progress was slow, and in this area of the Room, not all of the things were charred and unsalvageable. They came across several curious things while turning the place over in search of egg nests or straggling ashwinders, including a wooden bucket that seemed to engorge whatever you dropped inside of it, and a pair of gloves that had held Draco's hands and would not let go until Potter had yanked them off.

Potter was inanely fascinated with such items, but Draco was even worse for not putting a stop to it. The look of wonder Potter got over his face every time was a bit of an obstacle—in these times, Draco had to remind himself that Potter hadn't grown up as a wizard. It was difficult to process, sometimes: here, the most famous wizard of their age, with less than half his life spent in the wizarding world, still fascinated by simple charms put over common objects.

Draco would have scoffed at such behavior just a year or two ago. Now, he was trying and failing not to be terribly endeared.

"Hey, Malfoy? Come take a look at this," Potter called from a distance away. Draco rolled his eyes.

"For the last time, Potter, I'm sure whatever you found isn't as special as you think it is," Draco said, exasperated.

"No, this is...would you just come take a look at this?" Potter was standing in front of a large stack of burnt furniture, trying to clear the way for something shiny and slightly silvery that Draco could see peeking out.

"What's that?" Draco asked.

"I dunno," Potter said. "Come help me have a look."

They were supposed to be focusing on getting rid of the infestation, but curiosity got the better of Draco, and he began helping Potter haul away the rubble. Some of it was slightly burnt or smoke-stained, but this far back in the room, much of it was still intact.

At least, the silvery thing, which was smooth and solid to the touch, began to take shape as more of it was revealed. Draco stood back to get a better look at it.

"It's a fountain," he said. There were smooth, basin-like bowls in decreasing size up a tall, winding center piece.

They cleared everything away from it at last, and then observed it. It was cracked across the largest bowl at the bottom and held no water. The base of the fountain had carved into it a scaly dragon-like tail winding around the circular bottom, and around the center there were two, miniature marble dragon wings sticking out from either side. One of the wings was badly broken, half of it missing down a jagged crack.

It seemed to give a strange glow—Draco could see now that the fountain was pure white, and the silver he'd seen was from the light that it gave off.

"What do you suppose this is doing here?" Potter asked, stepping closer to inspect it.

"What's anything in this room doing here, Potter?"

"Fair enough," Potter said.

Draco also stepped forward, running his fingers over some of the carvings around the upper rims of the fountain. There was an omega symbol, as well as a sun and a moon, and towards the bottom, there was a curious, triangular eye-like symbol that looked vaguely familiar.

Potter had stepped round to where Draco was looking, and stopped, staring at the triangular symbol that Draco was running his fingers over.

"Why is that carved on there?" Potter asked. There was a strange quality about his voice, and when Draco turned around, Potter looked like he had seen a ghost.

"Do you know what this means?" Draco asked.

Potter hesitated, and then shook his head. Draco felt for sure that Potter was lying, but he didn't push the subject. Instead, he turned back to the fountain, a strange idea sprouting in his mind.

"Funny," he said. "This reminds me of the Fountain of Fair Fortune."

"What's that?"

Draco raised his eyebrows at Potter. "Surely you've heard the tale before?"

Potter shook his head. "It sounds familiar, though," he said.

"It's from Tales of Beedle the Bard. I suppose you wouldn't know of them, now that I think about it," Draco said. "They're fairy tales for wizard children."

"Oh, yeah," Potter said, sounding almost relieved. "I do know them, I just haven't heard the Fountain of Fortune one."

"Fountain of Fair Fortune," Draco corrected him. "Though this can't actually be it. Those are just children's stories. They're not real."

"You'd be surprised," Potter muttered.

Draco scoffed. "Oh come now, Potter, surely even you don't think we've somehow stumbled into a mythical, fortune-granting fountain in the middle of this shithole, do you?"

"No, I just—"

Potter was interrupted then by a sound—a sound that made the hair on Draco's nape stand on end. It was a low, smooth sound, of something slithering. Something large, much larger than the tiny ashwinder snakes.

"Oh, you've got to be fucking joking," Draco said.

"What was that?" Potter asked, looking around. Both of them had their wands out now.

"Well, in the tale, in order to get to the fountain you have to get past this giant worm..."

Potter opened his mouth, but his reply was cut off by another slithering sound, this time from much closer.

Panic was beginning to settle in Draco's gut now, because he was picturing another Nagini slithering around the ruins of the Room of Hidden Things, just waiting to strike.

"...What is it?" Potter asked quietly.

"I don't know, and I'm not very keen to find out," Draco said. Just then, from between two large piles of furniture, slid the body of a large, grey snake—larger than Nagini, with scales that glowed red in between dull, steel-like scales. Draco didn't see its head, but that was more than enough for him to duck behind a large dresser, his heart pounding somewhere in his throat.

The noise they made must have attracted the serpent, because it suddenly slithered, with alarming alacrity, into full view just behind the fountain where Potter still stood. Draco peeked around the corner and saw glowing red eyes and, alarmingly, its fangs as the snake rose up and bared its jaws at Potter.

"Oh my God, Potter, get in here!" Draco said, wrenching the door to the dresser open and scrambling inside, not caring how it looked.

To Draco’s surprise, Potter came in after him, pulling the doors as shut as they would go—it was an ill fit, two fully grown wizards crammed into a dresser, so the doors hung slightly ajar. Draco had thought Potter might stand and face the creature, the very pinnacle of foolish Gryffindor bravery that he was.

But instead, they were both awkwardly jammed in this tiny, dark space. Potter audibly swallowed. Draco tried not to let his breath tremble, but it was difficult—he was not brave. The last year had taught him that lesson the hard way. Potter’s entire side was pressed up against Draco, and it was distracting, but not distracting enough as an ominous hiss sounded from outside the dresser.

“What is it?” Potter whispered. He could feel the whisper of Potter’s breath on his cheek as he spoke and tried not to let it affect him.

“I’d think you of all people would know a snake when you saw one,” Draco hissed.

“No, I mean—it’s an ashwinder, isn’t it? It looks just like one, only how did it get so huge?”

“I don’t know, and I’m not sure I’d like to find out,” Draco said.

“Right...right, okay,” Potter said, and Draco didn’t like the edge that was in his voice. It sounded like Potter was about to do something—whatever it was, Draco was sure he wouldn’t like it.

“We have to get rid of it,” Potter said. “There’s no other way, we should try to Stun it.” Then he went quiet for a moment, as if thinking. “The bucket,” Potter said with sudden clarity. “The egg must have been hatched inside that bucket, the one that engorges things inside of it.”

Draco thought Potter was probably right, but what good did that do them now? “How are we supposed to get rid of it?” he asked.

“We could try to Stun it at the same time,” Potter suggested.

It seemed their time to make a decision had run out, however, because just then there was a rattling and thumping at the mouth of the dresser, like something huge was bodily knocking against it. It shook threateningly, and Potter grabbed Draco’s arm.

“Now!” he shouted, and then burst out, pulling Draco along with him, just as the dresser was knocked over on its side and subsequently reduced into a pile of splintering wood as the giant snake struck it with its body and its jaws, hissing and spitting.

“ _Stupefy_!” Potter shouted, aiming his wand at the snake. As if acting outside his own body, Draco followed suit, sending Stunning spells directed at the snake.

 _So this is what it’s like_ , Draco thought dimly as he and Potter lunged out of the way of another one of the snake’s attacks. _Battling with Potter._ No wonder his friends followed him into trouble year after year; it was strangely exhilarating.

Their movements were strangely in sync after that, advancing on the snake even as the spells bounced off its thick scales. It reared up again, opening its mouth and baring its fangs, and Draco instinctively waited before firing off another Stunner. Potter must have been thinking the same thing, because they cast simultaneously at the soft underbelly the giant ashwinder had exposed by rearing up. It swayed for a moment, the red gleam of its eyes dimming before it fell to the ground with a loud thud.

Draco stood there, panting and sweating and pulse racing in his veins with leftover adrenaline. Next to him, Potter gave a shaky laugh that sounded just as bewildered as Draco felt. He returned it, feeling hyped up and jittery, letting the laughter bubble up like it had been waiting there all this time. It felt indescribably good.

“God,” Potter breathed, still smiling. “I don’t know if I’m stupid for still not expecting things like that to happen, or what,” he said.

Draco smiled back, but then he froze; as Potter spoke, the snake behind them stirred silently, moving with the same alacrity that had surprised Draco earlier. Time didn’t slow down, but Draco processed the next series of events with a shocking speed, making his decision before he really had time to consider anything else.

The snake reared up again, and Potter’s back was turned—Potter noticed something wrong right away, he was moving, but it was going to be too late—the snake’s eyes were red and glittering as it shot out—

Draco shoved Potter down, the force of it causing him to fall too.

“ _Reducto_!” he shouted as he stumbled, hoping to blast the snake out of the way.

Apparently it was the spell they should have been using all along, because the curse hit the snake squarely, and it immediately gave an angry hiss before being blown to bits, which turned to ash and scattered around them before they could hit the ground.

Draco landed with his head somewhere on top of Potter’s shoulder. He could feel Potter’s breath, hot on his ear, Potter’s body warm underneath his. Draco lay there on top of Potter, frozen in place but for the heart that was drumming wildly against his ribs now.

“Thanks,” Potter breathed. Draco could feel the word leave Potter’s mouth, heard it low against his ear.

Slowly, tentatively, Draco lifted his head so that he was looking at Potter. Potter’s glasses had been knocked askew, his lips were slightly parted, and his hair was wilder than ever. Still high on adrenaline, Draco felt his cock stir.

“Don’t mention it,” he said, and Potter’s gaze dropped to Draco’s lips.

Something was happening, Draco realized dimly. There was a look in those green eyes of Potter’s, a layer below the initial shock—hunger, he recognized.

The revelation hit him like a Stunner to the chest. Potter _was_ attracted to blokes.

Attracted to _him_.

Draco shifted slightly, and something stiff beneath the material of Potter’s trousers brushed his thigh.

He scrambled upwards quickly, straightening his shirt and pretending to brush dirt from his knees. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Potter dazedly get to his feet and adjust his glasses back into place.

He didn’t know what to do or say; he felt like he was going to burst into flames.

“Er,” Potter said, and Draco closed his eyes. He really did not want to verbally reflect on anything that had just happened.

“...Some fountain, huh?” Potter mumbled. He had his back turned to Draco now, and his ears were red. They were going to ignore what had just happened, then—Draco could do that.

“Yeah,” was all Draco said. They got back to work, silently parting ways and heading off to different corners of the room.

 

*

That night, he finally got his thoughts together enough to send his letter to Potter with Charlotte.

>   
>  _Those glasses of yours are rather rose-colored if that’s what you think._
> 
> _If this person’s really changed, though, I think it makes enough difference just to know that you know it._
> 
> _I’d really like if you would keep Charlotte. She was supposed to be a gift to you in the first place, after all. Please keep her and do not send back a response._

  
When Draco sent her off that night, Charlotte looked at him with her golden eyes for a very long time. She was reluctant to leave, he could tell, and he marveled at her ability to sense emotion and respond to it in her own way. She shifted her weight on his arm and did something she had never done before: nuzzled him on the cheek with her soft white head before taking off.

Owls were not particularly cuddly creatures, he knew, and he felt extremely heavy-hearted as he watched her fly away.

 

*

Draco felt more nervous meeting Potter in the seventh floor corridor than he’d felt in a long time. He had no idea how Potter was going to act around him today after what had happened yesterday. He imagined it would be a repeat of the latter hours of the last afternoon, working separately in strained silence, much as they had done in the very beginning when they first started work on the Room.

This is what he got for being foolhardy, acting like a bloody Gryffindor, Draco decided. It was bad enough that he thought Potter was fit beyond belief, but it was now getting out of hand. Every time he thought about the look that would be on Potter’s face when he finally came round made his pulse race, with fear and anticipation alternately.

 _Pull yourself together_ , he told himself firmly. Just act normal. That was the best solution, wasn’t it? Pretend like nothing had happened. If he acted any differently, that would be like acknowledging exactly what had transpired between the two of them, and Draco wasn’t sure he was ready for that yet.

When Potter came round the corner and into the corridor, however, he was wearing an excited smile.

“Morning,” he greeted Draco.

“Er,” Draco said, “morning. Let’s get started, shall we?”

He made to open the door that he had previously summoned, but Potter put a hand on top of it, barring him from entering. Draco looked up at him in surprise.

“I’ve been thinking, Malfoy,” he said. “We’ve made really good progress already. And I don’t know about you, but I’m a bit sick of blasting stupid ashwinders all day.”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Are you suggesting we skive off?”

Potter smiled. “That’s the idea,” he said, and he looked like he thought it was the most brilliant idea he’d ever had. “What do you say?”

“Are you mad? McGonagall would have my hide if she found out,” Draco hissed. “I’m sorry, but I can’t afford the luxury of fucking off for a day. If you don’t want to work, then I’m sure you can just go do whatever it is you want.”

Potter seemed undeterred by Draco’s annoyance. “School is starting in a few days,” he said. “We won’t get another opportunity to do this.”

“And what is _this_ , exactly? I’m sorry if lazing around reading fan mail isn’t exactly my idea of a fun day off.”

“Well, I was thinking we could go flying,” Potter suggested. Draco paused, and Potter noticed. A victorious gleam entered his eyes. “Come on, Malfoy,” he said. “I know you haven’t been for a long time, and neither have I. It’s a beautiful day, look,” he gestured to one of the high windows on their side.

Indeed it was. There were barely any clouds in the sky, and despite September right around the corner, the weather was very much still summery and beautiful. Nearly perfect flying conditions. Draco felt a hint of longing.

“Come on,” Potter said, though he must have known already that Draco would give in. “We can have a Seeker’s game. Just us and a Snitch.”

“Fine,” Draco agreed. “Let me go get my broom.”

 

*

The last time Draco had seen the Quidditch pitch, it had been a site of fiery wreckage during the battle.

It was in no such state now, though; the entire thing had been rebuilt very quickly, and it looked just as it did the very first time Draco had set foot on it, all those years ago on that fateful day he had inadvertently caused Potter to become the Gryffindor seeker.

Potter had the case of balls with him when he came into view, lugging it along with a broom clutched in his hand. It wasn't his Firebolt, that much Draco could tell.

"Looking to beat me on an old Cleansweep?" Draco asked skeptically as Potter set the case down. "You may have never beaten me in a game before, but that's a little too much of a handicap. I assure you I'm still very good."

Potter rolled his eyes. "My Firebolt got destroyed last summer," he said. "Long story. Ron's letting me borrow his until I get a new one."

Draco didn't comment; it had been a very long while since he'd flown on his old Nimbus anyway. Sixth and seventh year really hadn’t left much time for Quidditch, after all.

Potter extracted just the Snitch from the case and let it thud shut on the Quaffle and Bludgers, which Draco could see struggling to get out of their bonds.

They mounted their brooms rose in the air, and effect was instantaneous: the rush of air across Draco's face and the sun on his skin made him feel lighter than he'd felt in eternity. Unbidden, a smile curved at the corners of his lips.

He looked over at Potter, who was grinning right back at him. Draco crouched low over his broom and began flying laps around the pitch, getting his bearings for flying again and enjoying the wind rustling through his hair and robes as he picked up speed. A glance told him that Potter was doing the same thing alongside him.

They slowed down after a bit, the freedom of flying still thrumming in Draco's veins as they set up next to each other on one end of the pitch. Potter pulled the Snitch out of his robes and held it up between them.

"Wait five minutes, and then the first to get it wins?" he asked.

Draco nodded, his eyes automatically trained on the tiny golden ball. Potter let it go, and it zoomed out of sight immediately. He and Potter watched it for a while, before Draco began flying around lazily again a few yards around their spot out of the necessity to keep moving. He was in the air again—staying still was counterproductive.

At the end of five minutes, Potter immediately took off to one end of the pitch, circling from high above, eyes scanning for the Snitch. Draco didn't follow him; instead, he took his time and flew the course of the pitch in laps, occasionally doing a couple loops out of sheer joy of flying.

"Are you going to show off all day or are you going to look for the Snitch?" Potter called down to him, and Draco grinned. The old competitiveness was back, but this time without the hard edge between them—the one that made Potter elbow him violently out of the way, or the one that made Draco grab onto the tail bristles of Potter's broom. This wasn't a game of Quidditch, after all; there were no Houses to root for. It was just him, Potter, and the Snitch. The whole thing was just for _themselves_.

He was going to win, Draco decided. He was going to do it, what he'd never done before, and the look on Potter's face when Draco took the Snitch for his own was going to be so worth it.

As if he could sense Draco's thoughts, Potter suddenly took off, zooming towards the goal hoops with a determined purpose; Draco followed him immediately, trying to catch sight of the Snitch, before he realized there was nothing there. Potter was trying to fake him out—it was an annoying habit of his, one that he'd employed several times after watching the Quidditch World Cup before fourth year, Draco noticed. Damn those Bulgarians.

Draco pulled out of their race and went high, circling the Pitch as Potter had been doing earlier.

"Nice try, Potter!" he called. Now that the desperate, burning hatred he had for Potter was no longer a part of the equation, his natural competitiveness was all that drove him. He found that it was a great feeling.

And then he spotted it—the a tiny golden speck near the far side of the stands. He looked at Potter, who was heading in the counterclockwise direction a few yards below him, and immediately bent low over his broom and raced towards the Snitch.

Potter noticed at once and made his move, picking up speed in time with Draco as they closed in on the Snitch from different angles.

Potter had advantage, he realized; Potter was going to get it.

At the last second, however, the Snitch zoomed out of sight, lightning fast and away into the air. Draco angled his broom upwards and headed for it, with Potter hot on his heels. His heart was thumping in his chest and he could hear his own breath in his ears as he reached his arm out...

Suddenly, Potter slammed into him from the side, knocking him off course and allowing the Snitch to flit away and out of sight. Draco whirled on Potter.

"What the fuck!"

Potter smirked; as outraged as Draco was, it still looked infuriatingly good on him. "Better luck next time, Malfoy," he said, and then headed off to begin circling once again.

Draco expelled air angrily and yanked the handle of his broom so that he went in the opposite direction. Potter's move was dirty, for sure, but it wasn't illegal.

They circled for a few more minutes. Draco was on edge the entire time, the hum of competition fully thriving—he _needed_ to win. He looked at Potter warily—Potter wasn't a passive player. That wasn't his style; he made his moves constantly and took risks constantly. He looked entirely at home in the air, circling with a look of intense concentration on his face. The wind blew his hair back from his face, and his cheeks were flushed with effort from flying—he looked stunning. Just then, Potter looked up too, eyes going right to Draco from across the pitch, and Draco felt something warm stir in the pit of his belly.

Now wasn't the time, he reminded himself. He had to find the Snitch. Potter was going to move soon, he could feel it.

And he was right, because Potter suddenly went into an extremely sharp dive, his body laid flat against his broom.

Draco followed along with him at once—the speed with which Potter was flying left him no alternative, and the risk was too great to take otherwise. However, Potter had the jump on him; he moved first, and Draco was behind. He cursed himself internally for not being as observant.

But something felt off—he kept his eyes wide, looking for the Snitch Potter was heading towards, but he could see none. It was the Wronksi Feint that Potter had become so fond of ever since Viktor Krum used the move, and it was entirely possible that there was no Snitch on the other end.

They were hurtling towards the ground now, and Draco knew that Potter would pull out sharply soon. He breathed in, deciding to take a leaf out of Potter's book and take a huge risk, and pulled out of the drive prematurely, far before the ground was too close.

His risk was rewarded, because as soon as he pulled away, Draco saw the Snitch hovering just above where they had originally been before diving. Potter was facing away from it, and it almost looked like the Snitch was watching Potter in his dive with mild interest. Draco maneuvered his broom to circle back upwards and around, snatching the Snitch out of midair with a quick hand.

Draco gave a whoop of victory and touched down to the earth. Potter was pulling out of the Wronksi Feint now, earlier than he would have normally. He must have realized what happened too, because he landed some ways away from Draco and threw his broom down to the ground.

"I won," Draco called over to Potter. The feeling was indescribable; after so many years, he finally, _finally_ caught a Snitch before Potter.

Potter was giving him an intense look, but Draco was too amped up on his victory to care.

“I won,” he repeated, this time allowing a triumphant smile to spread over his face; he felt exultant, lighter than he’d felt in years. He held the Snitch up proudly between his fingers. “I _won_!”

Potter was approaching him purposefully now, a fiery look in his eyes. He was angry at his own mistake, probably, Draco thought.

“Now, Potter, there’s no need to—”

Potter grabbed the back of Draco’s neck and kissed him.

Draco didn’t even hesitate; immediately, he kissed back, throwing his arms around Potter’s neck and bringing their bodies close. It felt like the most natural thing in the world. Potter’s hands ran up Draco’s neck, then the sides of his face, then threaded into his hair.

 _I’m kissing Harry Potter_ , Draco thought dazedly as he felt Potter’s tongue slip into his mouth. _I’m kissing_ Harry Potter.

Fire was racing along his veins, filling him with hot, purposeful sensation that he channeled into his fingertips as he pressed them against Potter’s waist; into his tongue as it slipped against Potter’s; into his teeth as he scraped Potter’s lip against their edge.

Potter’s hands were moving down from Draco’s hair, down his back, under his shirt and along bare skin. He hauled Draco against him more firmly, as if trying to meld their bodies together. Draco gasped, drunk on the sensation as he felt Potter’s hard cock grind against his own through the fabric of their trousers. Potter attacked his neck and Draco found his hands fisting themselves into Potter’s unruly hair as he groaned aloud.

Potter moved his way back up until their lips met in a kiss again, this one even more aggressive than the last. Their hands moved wildly as their hips rutted against each other; Draco wasn’t even aware of what was happening beyond the slick sensation of Potter’s mouth against his half the time, until Potter’s hands moved down his arms and gripped his wrists, seeking to take control.

It was exactly where the tip of the Dark Mark was, the end of where the snake protruded violently from the mouth of the skull. Draco wrenched his arm out of Potter’s grasp, at the same time stumbling back so that they were no longer touching.

He took deep, bracing gulps of air, wanting to look anywhere but Potter’s face. He could not think.

“Malfoy,” Potter began, his voice hoarse and hesitant.

“I—I have to go,” Draco said. He turned and strode back to the castle as quick as he could, not daring to look backwards, though he could feel Potter’s gaze on his back long after they had lost sight of each other.

A weak movement in his hand made him realize he was still holding the Snitch from their game, its wings now crumpled up and fluttering feebly.

It reminded him of Charlotte when he’d first found her, he thought as he relaxed his grip on the ball. It immediately rose from his palm and began flying almost drunkenly towards the open doorway, as if it couldn’t get away from Draco fast enough.

 

*

The first thing Draco did when he got back to the Slytherin dormitory was wank himself raw under the spray of a hot shower.

He pressed his head against the cool shower tiles after he finished, letting the water pound down against his neck as he watched his come swirl down the drain.

This was beyond anything he had ever expected. He knew from yesterday that Potter was attracted to him, but _this_ —this was more than he'd ever been prepared for.

How long? How long had Potter been reciprocating Draco's attraction without Draco ever noticing? He was a very observant person, and he was good at reading people; it was what part of what made him a Slytherin, after all.

He'd been too absorbed in thinking about himself, about Charlotte, about what he would write to Potter, about how he was looking at Potter, and therefore neglecting to notice Potter's reactions towards him.

Or it was possible that Draco was simply not as clever as he thought he was.

He wiped the water from his eyes and pushed his hair out of his face. Traces of lust were still lingering in his veins, and his spent cock gave a feeble, interested twitch at the memory of Potter's mouth on his.

But it would never work, he told himself as he shut the water off and toweled himself off. It would never work, because he was Draco Malfoy, and Potter was _Harry Potter_. That's what he'd been reminded of in the Quidditch pitch, after all. The Mark on his arm was steadily fading and becoming murky, but it was still there, all the same.

Potter wanted Draco, but it was surely he wasn't interested in starting anything deeper between them than a one-off shag. Draco didn't trust himself not to want anything beyond that, though. He knew he was in deep trouble where Potter was concerned.

He found himself missing Charlotte's comforting presence when he returned to the common room. But she was with Potter now, for good. At least one of them could be with him, he thought as he retreated to his dormitory and sank into bed, exhaustion from the day sinking into his bones and lulling him into a fitful sleep.

 

*

He awoke in the evening, achingly hard and straining against his pants. His dreams had a very disturbing clarity: hands in his hair, breathy gasps from up above him, and the weight of Potter's cock heavy on his tongue. He shoved a hand down his pants and brought himself off quickly, gasping out his orgasm when it hit him before slumping back against his pillows.

It was dark around him, though he hadn't drawn his bed curtains. He spelled the mess off his stomach and rose blearily; it had been afternoon when he'd fallen asleep, so it must be some time around night now. A Tempus charm told him that dinner in the Great Hall had already ended, but he had no appetite to speak of. Instead, he dressed and sat at his desk instead, pulling out his books and resolving to research methods for fixing the Room.

With any luck, he'd find the solution tonight and then he and Potter wouldn't have cause to spend any more time together.

No matter how much he read about architectural Transfiguration, however, the words were simply not sinking in. He kept drifting back to his dream, and then back to the kiss with Potter. His insides burned with a mixture of longing and fear; he didn't want to want this. It was terrifying. It would destroy him and all his future prospects. _Especially_ if Potter decided to tell anybody and word somehow got out to the papers.

Running a hand through his hair, he got out a parchment and quill. Writing letters was supposed to be cathartic, wasn't it? Everything with Charlotte had taught him as much, anyway.

 _Potter,_ he wrote, addressing Potter's name in writing for the first time.

_Last night I dreamt of sucking your cock. I dreamt of swallowing you whole._

_\- Draco Malfoy_

He stared at the parchment for a moment—his slanted, neat handwriting, the purposeful way he had written that had caused the ends of letters to be thicker than others where he'd pressed down on the quill in his haste. Then he scowled and swiped the letter off his desk, crumpling it in his hands and setting it on fire with a quick _Incendio_. The still-wet ink smeared over his hands, but he didn't care.

The letter slowly curled in on itself as orange-black flames ate away at the parchment, until it sat as a pile of ash on his desk. Draco looked at it for a long while, feeling no more relieved than he had been all evening.

He spent the next day holed in the Slytherin common room, trying very hard to tell himself that he wasn't sulking, but he knew he was doing just that. He whiled the hours away, caught between wondering if Potter was going to come looking for him, and admonishing himself for thinking Potter cared enough to seek Draco out.

 _He certainly seemed to care when he was snogging the life out of you_ , an invasive voice said, but Draco resolutely ignored it. But he couldn’t, as much as he tried—the kiss everything he’d been afraid of wanting and more, God, it was so much _more_.

No, he told himself again. It might be more for him, but that probably wasn’t the case with Potter. Potter was just projecting himself onto Draco, because Draco was available and fit and attracted to him...but God, that blaze in Potter’s eyes right before he had kissed Draco. He couldn’t have imagined that, could he?

This was going to kill him, he realized, putting his head in his hands. This was going to be his death. He was going to put Potter from his mind, he decided once and for all, opening his books again.

It was late in the evening, however, when a _pop_ sounded again from the common room, and when Draco went out to check, Charlotte was perched on the back of the armchair where he usually sat.

His heart leapt into his throat at the sight of her; she hooted merrily at him, flapping over and settling on his shoulder. He untied the note from her foot with shaking hands. It was a single slip of parchment, not even folded.

 

> _Meet me at the Room at half nine. Please._

  
Draco quickly checked the time with a quick Tempus charm; he had fifteen minutes until the proposed meetup time, and he could make it there if he left now. He hesitated, wildly considering the possibilities. Potter had written to him using Charlotte—which meant, he realized with a sinking sensation in his stomach, that Potter had known all along that it was Draco sending him those letters.

Charlotte fluttered down from his shoulder and landed on the table, looking at him with her knowing golden eyes. He looked at her for a long while before taking a deep breath and making his decision.

 

*

Draco’s heart felt like it was about to leap out of his throat when he rounded the corner, but it was not Potter waiting for him by the entrance to the Room of Requirement, but Hermione Granger.

“Granger?” he asked in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

“That’s Hermione to you,” she said, a mischievous smile on her face. “And if you must know, I’m here to sort out the mess you two have created for yourselves.”

“So that means _you_ sent Charlotte? How did you—how could you have—”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Please, Draco. It wasn’t at all hard to figure out, and I’ve only been back for a few days.”

“But it was in Potter’s handwriting!”

“As if I could spend six years looking after his atrocious penmanship and not learn how to copy it.”

“So then...then he doesn’t know about Charlotte?” Draco asked, his nerves feeling like they were about to expire.

Hermione shrugged. “Not that he’s told me, at least.”

The relief Draco felt was immense, but then he frowned. “So then where is Potter?”

A blush rose to his cheeks then—how much did she know, exactly, about them? Did she know what happened on the Quidditch pitch yesterday?

“Oh, you know,” she said vaguely. “He won’t stop talking about you, you know. Though that’s nothing particularly new.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Hermione smiled her mysterious smile again and beckoned him over with a nod of her head, as if to tell him a secret. Feeling bewildered, he stepped closer to her.

She seized him by the wrist and tugged him forward, at the same time opening the door with her other hand before shoving him inside.

“What the—”

“You’ll thank me for this later,” she said before she slammed the door shut. Draco turned to face the door, rapping his fists against it.

“Granger!” he shouted. “What the hell are you doing? Granger! Hermione!”

He pulled out his wand and tried to unlock the door, but it wasn’t budging. Moments later, however, it opened again. Draco hastily stepped back to avoid being hit before Potter was thrown inside unceremoniously.

“Hermione, what are you doing?” he asked, sounding utterly shocked and confused.

“The door will open tomorrow morning! ‘Bye now!” she said cheerfully before she shut the door.

“Potter?”

Potter whirled around, apparently only just having noticed Draco standing there.

“Malfoy?” Something seemed to click into place for him, because his confusion cleared. “Oh, bloody hell, I’m going to kill Hermione.”

He looked annoyed, but then that too quickly melted away as his mouth fell open in amazement. “Malfoy, what did you do? You fixed it?”

Draco really hadn’t been paying proper attention to his surroundings—he’d been more concerned with the fact that he’d just been suddenly kidnapped by Hermione Granger of all people. But he looked around now, and his mouth also fell open.

They were not standing the in the Room of Hidden Things; they were standing in a perfectly ordinary bedroom, decorated in neutral colors with the Hogwarts school crest decorating various things.

“I didn’t do this,” Draco said, looking around with wide eyes. “The last time I was in here was the day before last, with you.”

“Me too,” Potter said.

“Hermione,” they said simultaneously. Draco grinned, despite himself. But then he remembered everything that happened, and let the smile slide off his face, which began to heat quickly. Hermione _did_ know more than she let on—otherwise she wouldn’t have shoved them into a bloody _bedroom_.

Potter caught on quickly, his face reddening and his gaze averting.

“Er,” he began, and Draco really wished he wouldn’t speak. “Malfoy...do you think we should at least talk about this?”

“Talk about what?” Draco asked, his tone much more hostile than he actually felt. His old defense mechanisms were building themselves up again.

“You know what,” Potter said shortly, facing Draco now. “I’m sorry if I did something wrong the other day...I, er, got a little bit carried away. I didn’t mean to scare you off.”

“You didn’t _scare me off_ , Potter,” Draco said coldly, even though that’s exactly what Potter had done. “I’m just not foolish enough to purposefully create a disaster.”

Potter’s eyebrows shot up. “A disaster? That’s not really what I would call it.”

“Oh really?” Draco said. “Then what would you call it? Think about it, Potter. Think about who we are! This could never happen and you know it.”

Potter squared his jaw, and Draco recognized the stubborn set of it from their previous school days. “I don’t care about any of that,” he snapped. “All I know is...is how I feel, and how I think you feel too.”

“And how is that?” Draco asked, trying to sound disdainful, but he failed to keep the note of genuine curiosity out of his voice.

Potter seemed to have detected it too, because he looked confident as he stepped forward and took one of Draco’s hands in his tentatively. “Malfoy,” he said softly. “I really like you. All right? And I don’t know what that means for us, or what people will say, and, hell, the thought of it alone scares me half to death. But all I know, and all I care about right now is that I like you.”

His eyes were so very earnest—they were a trap, Draco decided, because as he looked into them, he found he couldn’t look away, no matter how hard he tried. Something large and precarious was welling up inside him, threatening to spill forth.

“I can’t...we can’t…” he said feebly, but Potter was coming closer. Draco could feel the edge of his glasses on his own cheek, he could feel Potter’s breath on his.

“We can,” Potter whispered, and then their lips met.

It was everything their last kiss wasn’t and more; Draco was hesitant in responding this time, but Potter didn’t give up. Eventually, Draco began kissing back, and immediately whatever he’d been trying to hold back broke down at the feel of Potter’s hands in his hair, his lips on Draco’s.

It was slow and gentle and sweet, cultivating a slow, simmering heat instead of the passionate burst of fire from last time.

God, how Draco wanted this—he had been a fool to try to deny himself. Potter’s thumbs stroked gently, lovingly across his cheeks as his face was held in Potter’s hands. He made a small noise at the feeling, and this was the moment he decided to throw caution to the wind. He would have this, he decided. He didn’t deserve it, but he would have it. At least once. Potter was so convincing, after all.

Potter’s hands were working their way under Draco’s shirt now, pulling it from his trousers and getting his hands on the skin around Draco’s hips.

“Is this okay?” he pulled back to whisper, resting his forehead against Draco’s. The look in his eyes was so sincere it hurt.

“God, yes,” Draco breathed, before wrapping a hand around Potter’s neck and bringing their mouths together again.

Potter groaned, and their kiss grew heated, more reminiscent of the one they’d shared on the Quidditch pitch. The slow sweetness was fading, replaced by a hard, fast passion that had Draco tugging at the hem of Potter’s muggle tee to get at his bare skin. Potter shrugged it off easily and then brought them together again, hauling Draco against him much like he did yesterday so that their hips ground into each other.

Draco was hard, and so was Potter. He hummed his pleasure as the hard pressure of Potter’s cock met against his own. Potter reached a hand down between them, rubbing against Draco’s length, and Draco pulled his mouth away from Potter’s to moan breathily.

Potter took that as opportunity to suck love bites into Draco’s neck and collarbone, his shirt now hanging from his shoulders. His hand moved insistently against Draco’s clothed erection while his lips sucked dark blotches into Draco’s neck, and Draco pressed his hands against Potter’s back, then his neck, then his arse.

“God, you taste so good,” Potter growled against him. “You’ve been driving me crazy for days, you have no idea.” His voice was low and husky, and it sent a jolt of electricity straight to Draco’s cock, which was now hard beyond belief.

He knew what he wanted. He shoved Potter back by the shoulders with enough force to cause Potter to fall onto the bed, where he gazed up at Draco in a mixture of amusement and arousal.

“I could say the same thing about you,” Draco said. “I want to be able to. But we’ll have to see, first.”

He quickly toed off his shoes and socks, and then fell to his knees to do the same for Potter. Potter’s eyes widened the moment Draco went down; despite all his confidence from earlier, Draco knew that Potter was probably inexperienced when it came to actual sex.

That was probably a good thing, Draco decided, or else he’d probably have to murder whoever Potter had built experience with. Which would be shame, because he didn’t really dislike Ginny Weasley as much as he ought to.

Draco moved his hands slowly up Potter’s knees, then his thighs, then to the waistband of Potter’s jeans. The bulge in his crotch was notable now, and Draco nuzzled against it before unbuttoning and undoing the zip and tugging the jeans all the way off Potter’s legs.

Potter stared, transfixed and raised up on his elbows, his legs half hanging off the bed. “Malfoy,” he whispered, almost fearfully, but the desire in his voice was nearly overpowering. Draco felt drunk on it.

“I’ve thought about this for so long,” Draco whispered, mouthing against the length straining through Potter’s pants. “I’ve dreamt about this.”

With that, he pulled Potter’s pants down enough to be able to take Potter’s cock into his mouth. He did so at once, closing his lips around the thick head and licking against it. Potter’s response was to groan aloud brokenly, and bring a hand down to clutch at Draco’s shoulder.

“Oh, God,” Potter said as Draco held the base of his prick in one hand and sucked in earnest. It was better than he’d imagined, the heady weight of Potter’s cock against his tongue, Potter’s desperate gasps every time he pulled upwards. His own cock was leaking against his trousers now, but he made no move to relieve himself, concentrating only on the movement and feel of Potter in his mouth.

Potter wasn’t going to last long, Draco could tell, but he didn’t let up; he wanted this, he wanted to feel all of Potter, to taste him in full.

“Oh God, oh Draco,” Potter moaned, and Draco lifted his eyes to be able to look at Potter’s face, another jolt of desire zapping through his bones at Potter’s use of his first name.

He pulled off for a moment, and murmured against the head of Potter’s cock, “Come for me. Come for me, Harry.”

And then he took Potter’s cock into his mouth once again, letting the length of it slide all the way in his mouth to meet his throat and swallowed around it, humming slightly.

Potter came, shuddering and grasping at Draco’s hair, Draco’s name on his lips. Draco swallowed everything down and lapped a couple more times at the over-sensitive head before he released Potter.

At once, Potter sat up and hauled Draco into his lap, bringing their mouths together for a bruising kiss. His hands found the waistband of Draco’s trousers, which he undid impatiently while Draco rocked against him, now desperate for release.

Potter’s hand closed around his leaking cock, moving fast and hard and the friction was so much that it was a little painful, but Draco had never felt anything so good in his life.

“God, yes,” he whimpered against Potter’s lips as Potter stroked him. “Yes, please, _yes_.”

“Come on,” Potter growled. “Come on, Draco.”

It was his voice that did it. Draco was so amped up to begin with, the whole exchange lasted barely a minute, but he didn’t care. It was a glorious minute, and he came with a strained moan, his forehead pressed against Potter’s own.

They both collapsed against the pillows, boneless and sweating. Draco kicked his trousers and pants all the way off and Potter followed suit, so that they were both naked as they lay back against the sheets. With some effort, Draco retrieved his wand from his fallen robes at the foot of the bed and cleaned up the mess on Potter’s hands and his own stomach with a murmured spell, and then Potter’s arms came around him, pulling him close.

“God,” Draco said as he allowed himself to curl into Potter’s embrace, “I really am going to have to thank Hermione, aren’t I?”

“Mmm,” Potter hummed sleepily. “Most definitely.”

The lull of sleep was strong, and with Potter’s arms wrapped around him, Draco felt the pull of slumber over him. The final thing he did before he let himself be pulled down under was gently remove Potter’s glasses from his face and set them on the nightstand; a small smile flitted across Potter’s face as Draco did so, and then they both let their eyes slide shut.

 

*

Draco awoke to a knocking sound on the door, feeling distinctly warmer than he usually felt waking up. He and Potter were still wrapped up together, he realized, and his eyes opened wide as he remembered everything that happened.

Dear God, that really _had_ all happened. The knocking on the door was getting louder now, and Potter eyes were also open now.

“Draco, Harry! I’m unlocking the door now!”

It was Hermione. Both of them sat up in bed, quickly throwing on their clothes. Draco was faster, so he crossed the room and opened the door a crack. On the other side, Hermione stood looking incredibly smug, but Draco found that he couldn’t quite find it in him to be annoyed at her.

“Morning,” she said cheerfully. “I see everything went well. I’ve brought someone for you.” She held up her arm in front of her; Charlotte was perched on it. She twittered happily when she saw Draco. “I think it’s about time you cleared everything up between the two of you,” Hermione said with a meaningful look. She handed Charlotte over to Draco, who took her wordlessly. “Tell Harry I said good morning.”

“Remind me never to underestimate you again,” Draco muttered, and Hermione only looked even more smug. “By the way, how did you fix the room? We’d been working on it for weeks.”

“Oh, that,” she laughed. “It was actually shockingly simple, I’m surprised that it never occurred to you sooner. Though I suppose you wanted the excuse to spend time with Harry.”

“Get on with it, Granger.”

“It's Hermione. I just cast a Fire Imperviability Charm over the entire room; it didn’t need to be strong, since it only needed to last an hour. It just had to be wide, and then after that the ashwinders and their eggs died on their own,” she shrugged.

Draco was speechless. Of course it would be that simple, and of course he wouldn’t have thought of it. Here he was researching the complexity of architectural and mental Transfiguration, and all they needed was a simple bloody charm.

“Well, if that’s all,” Hermione said. “Feel free to come out whenever you’re ready, the door’s unlocked now.”

She headed off down the corridor, then, but Draco called after her. “Hermione, wait.” She paused, turning to look at him.

“Thank you,” he said, and she smiled beatifically before turning around again and heading down the corridor.

“That was Hermione, wasn’t it?” Potter was sitting on the bed, dressed in his tee and jeans once again. He caught sight of Charlotte perched on Draco’s shoulder and paused, looking between Draco and her.

“I...must confess something,” Draco said, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. “So you know those letters Charlotte’s been sending you for the past few weeks?”

Potter raised a brow, but said nothing and waited for Draco to continue. He did so after taking a deep, steadying breath. “I assume you realize who that was now, given the situation...I’m sorry I never told you.”

To his surprise, Potter smiled. “Malfoy,” Potter said, his voice somehow calm and understanding. “I knew it was you for a very long time.”

Draco was stunned. “What—how? Did Hagrid tell you?”

“What? Hagrid?” Potter frowned. “Hagrid knew about this? Is that the reason he wanted to see you that day?”

“Oh, God,” Draco said, crossing over to the bed and sitting down. Charlotte nipped Potter affectionately on the finger before moving to settle on the nightstand. “How did you find out?”

“Well, it’s a funny story, actually,” Potter said. “Charlotte’s a very charming owl...I’ve never seen anybody make friends as quickly as she does.”

“I’ll say,” Draco muttered to himself. He wouldn’t be surprised if Charlotte had half the damn school wrapped around her feathers by now. She twittered happily.

“Well, strangely enough, she’s friends with Kreacher the house elf, and I’m Kreacher’s master, so...I sort of ordered him to tell me after I realized he recognized her. I’ve never seen him take to another creature before…”

Draco understood, suddenly; Kreacher was the old Black family house elf, if he recalled correctly, and it wouldn’t be a far stretch to assume that he was responsible for looking after the Slytherin common room. Which was where Charlotte spent much of her time during the early days of Draco taking her in. It also explained how she constantly got into the common room without a password, and the food and drink that was sometimes set out for her. The sly bird—Draco was sure she would belong in Slytherin if she were a person.

“Charlotte, you tricky little thing,” he said to her. She blinked at him rather smugly and ruffled her feathers in a very self-satisfied way. “So you’re not mad at me for anonymously soliciting you?”

Potter shrugged dismissively. “I guess it was a little annoying at first, before I knew who you were. But then...I feel like you showed more of your true self and thoughts in those letters than you did when we actually saw each other. I don’t know...I suppose it made me feel closer to you, especially after I realized my feelings for you.”

Draco’s heart sped, a rising sensation happening somewhere in his chest. Potter's feelings for _him_.

“So...you...want to do this again, then?” Draco asked tentatively. He felt incredibly nervous, suddenly.

Potter—Harry now, he supposed—smiled, and nodded. “This...but not just this. Other things too. Like studying, and eating, and just spending time together…”

Draco felt the smile on his face grow as Harry spoke, and wordlessly, he twined their fingers together.

“If that’s all right with you?” Harry asked, smiling down at their joined hands.

But then Draco remembered something, and he took his hand back, staring at Charlotte.

“There’s something else I have to tell you,” he said, graver this time. “Something I should have told you all along.”

“What is it?” Harry sounded a tiny bit wary.

“The reason I wanted you to have Charlotte in the first place...well, it was Hagrid’s idea, really, but still…”

“What is it, Draco?”

Draco looked at Harry, then at Charlotte, who was looking serenely at the both of them. “Well, you see,” he said. “It seems that your old owl, Hedwig,” Harry tensed up at the name and Draco tried not to notice, “well, she….Oh, what I’m trying to say is that Charlotte here is...shall we say, likely a direct descendent.”

Harry's eyes widened. “You don’t mean…?”

“Hedwig was probably her mother. Or so Hagrid and I think, anyway. That’s why they look so alike. I found her injured in the forest a few weeks ago and brought her to Hagrid, and then he told me his theory about Hedwig.”

Harry looked at Charlotte with a new light in his eyes—there was a mixture of wonder, as well as sadness and grief. Draco wouldn’t have been able to understand it before, but he thought now that he understood it a little bit. He remembered that heavy feeling as he watched Charlotte fly away for what he thought had been the last time, and pictured that augmented times a hundred.

Slowly, Harry reached a hand out to stroke Charlotte’s white feathers reverently. She hooted kindly at him, and he smiled slowly.

“Wow,” he said, shaking his head. “I never even thought about...well, I suppose there were all those times in fourth and fifth year where I was barely able to use Hedwig…”

Draco watched as Harry scooted closer to Charlotte, feeling like he was intruding on something private. But then Harry looked up at him suddenly.

“You should keep her,” he said decisively.

“...What?”

“I said you should keep her,” Harry repeated. “Charlotte. I think she’s rather attached to you.”

“But,” Draco said, “she’s...she’s Hedwig’s owlet. Don’t you want her?”

Harry just smiled. “Hedwig was my friend for a very long time, and for a lot of those times, she was the only friend I had. She was there for me when I was alone...and I think Charlotte’s inherited that from her. Only she’s meant to be your friend more than mine. You keep her.”

Harry sounded like he wasn’t going to argue on this, and Draco slowly moved to stroke Charlotte as well. She closed her eyes and nuzzled into his hands when he touched her, and both he and Harry smiled.

“See?” Harry said. “She likes you better anyway.”

“So you’re not angry that I kept this from you?” Draco asked.

“Maybe I might have been a while ago,” Harry said. “But I don’t think I can be now. After all, in a way it’s what brought us together.” He took Draco’s hand in his again.

“Yes,” Draco conceded. “That’s true.”

He sat there for a little while longer, simply enjoying being in the presence of those he cared about. Harry's thumb stroked lightly against the back of his hand. It seemed Charlotte wasn’t the only company he was going to be having from here on out.

Draco smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or on [Livejournal](http://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/116572.html).


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